Tempest
by Saelia
Summary: The famous letter never reached its target. It is now 1814, and Elizabeth Bennet is desperate, desperate enough to seek out the man she scorned and accept a proposal from three years before... even if Mr. Darcy is not quite the man she remembers. AU, Regency.
1. Grey Skies

_**Tempest**_

* * *

><p><span><strong>I.<strong>** Grey**** Skies**  
><em>the clouds that never clear<em>

**-~O~-**

**October 1814**

_I can do this_, Elizabeth Bennet reassured herself, smoothing the waterlogged folds of her black crepe gown. Failure, after all, was not an option.

The rain splattered against her ruined coiffure, thick strands of chestnut hair spilling out of their careful arrangement as she hurried down the pebbled path towards the manse looming in the distance. Wind slammed into her with each step; the biting cold spread through her drenched garments as her teeth chattered. Once, she thought bitterly, she would have had a parasol, or even a hired carriage. If things were different, she could have grieved for her father, mourned him as he deserved, instead of being forced into this act of desperation.

Had it only been her, she would have taken her chances at finding employment as a governess or even a servant, eking out a meager but respectable living. But she could not condemn her sisters and mother to weeks of living on the streets while they searched for work. Especially when she, and only she, was at fault for their dismal circumstances.

Gritting her teeth, Elizabeth reached up to the ornate brass rings that guarded the entrance to the imposing stone residence and knocked.

The harsh drumming of rain surrounded her as she stood, spine iron straight despite the chill deep in her bones, each second both fleeting and interminable. She did not _want _the heavy oaken doors to creak open – and the wretched conversation that must follow – yet nor could she stomach the idea that she would be left outside waiting in the cold, the rest of her family scrambling for a place to stay, a way to survive. Desperation pulsed within her, burning and scorching all it touched but failing to keep her warm against the onslaught of the weather. She closed her eyes against the cool liquid trailing down her pale skin and waited.

At last, a glimmer of light appeared.

"Is there something you need, Miss?" a liveried manservant inquired brusquely, his disapproval clear as he examined her soaked clothing. She realized she must look a fright: skin pale and tinged-blue with cold, unruly curls escaping the pins that'd sought to hold them in place, dress hem dirty and ragged as a result of trekking through the mud. A choked half-laugh, half-sob rose to her throat at the ridiculousness of it all – once again, she came to his place of residence with skirts filthy and bedraggled, but how different the circumstances from when she had gone to Netherfield to visit Jane three years prior!

"Miss?" the servant repeated.

For a moment, she was tempted to tell him it was a mistake, to walk away and never return. But the images rose to her mind unbidden.

Beautiful, darling Jane, coughing her lungs out as she was forced to bear the weather in spite of her weak constitution. Silly, flighty Lydia, unable to afford even the smallest of trinkets and deprived of any chance of officially coming out and securing the hand of a handsome officer as she'd dreamed. Mary, never to touch the ivory keys of the pianoforte again; Kitty, without any new gowns; and even Mother, wilting away under the twin pressures of poverty and ignominy.

She truly had no choice. She would swallow her pride and throw herself at _his _mercy.

"An audience," she croaked, the words grating in her throat like sandpaper. She coughed and continued with as much dignity as a drenched, penniless young woman trespassing on a grand estate at a strange hour could have: "With Mr. Darcy, please."

He eyed her dubiously from the warmth and dryness of the interior of the building. "A moment."

Water trickled down her forehead into her eyes. She was grateful for it; any tears would at least be disguised by the downpour.

When he returned, it was to grimace at her unapologetically. "Mr. Darcy is indisposed – he is not receiving visitors."

"Isn't he?" she muttered, unsurprised that the haughty, taciturn man she remembered would ignore a woman standing at his doorstep in the rain, at night. "Perhaps his disposition would improve if you told him Miss Elizabeth Bennet is calling."

The doorman hesitated, visibly reluctant.

"Please," she added quietly.

He nodded, and the crack of light vanished again. She fought another shiver as a new gust of wind blasted through the dark.

Suddenly, the door burst open; she was momentarily disoriented by the glow of candlelight. As her eyes adjusted, she realized that the figure at the door was taller and leaner than the manservant who had greeted her, hard, aristocratic features cast into sharp relief by the flickering wall-torches. Her mouth went dry.

"Miss Elizabeth," came the low baritone she had not heard in three years, carrying no small amount of shock. She wished she could make out his face more clearly, to read the expression there. "I did not believe it was truly you – you are shivering."

_On the account of the rain, no doubt – it does affect us lesser mortals_. She bit her tongue to prevent the sharp retort from emerging as she followed him inside to an elegantly furnished drawing room, a fire blazing at the hearth.

"Blankets, Ann," he ordered the maid standing by the fireplace. "Quickly." The girl hastily went to do as asked. Turning, he grasped Elizabeth by the hand and led her to the sofa. She did not complain; the heat of the fireplace, in tandem with the warmth of strong grip on her icy skin, did much to alleviate the chill that had spread through her body.

The maid returned with a stack of quilts that Elizabeth hastily wrapped herself in with numb fingers. There was silence but for the crackling of the fire.

She dared not look at him, yet she could not help but sneak small glances from the corner of her eye. He appeared thinner than she remembered, or perhaps it was his state of undress; she had to fight a blush as she realized that he was only in a shirt and trousers, sleeves rolled up to reveal muscular forearms lightly dusted with dark hair. There were dark shadows under his eyes, either from the dim lighting or from too little sleep. Yet there was no denying that he was handsome, even more so than in her memory.

That strong profile turned. She dropped her eyes, embarrassed that he had caught her staring. He had no such compunction, taking in her discombobulated state with an utterly unreadable expression.

"I admit I had not expected to see you again," he said slowly, gaze returning to the fire.

Elizabeth gave a little start. "I had not thought that we would meet again, either," she managed to say, heart pounding so hard against her ribcage that she feared she might burst. "But circumstances prove otherwise."

"And what might those circumstances be?"

She cast a quick look around her, taking in the Persian carpet, the ornate papered walls, the gilded furniture – yes, Pemberley was so removed from Longbourne that it was a different world. What had he called her – "a disadvantageous match, with little fortune and the lowest of connections?" Now she no longer even had those. What could she possibly mean to him now? A humiliating reminder of the past? The girl who had spurned him? And that was assuming he still even cared; what was to say that his "ardent love" hadn't been fleeting, a passing fancy, now faded to indifference?

…But Jane…

And _he _was not entirely free of culpability in this matter either as the man who had separated Jane from her Bingley. A spark of the old anger rose within Elizabeth. The worst he could do was to throw her out – and that was where she would end up anyway, if she did not succeed!

"I merely came to ask," Elizabeth said with the brazenness of a woman with nothing left to lose, "if your offer from three years past was still available for the taking."

Darcy froze. She could see the sudden tension in his knuckles, white against the armchair, in the corded muscle of his arms, in the sloping angle of his square jaw. The room felt unbearably quiet and entirely too small. She did not dare to breathe.

When those steel-grey eyes finally met hers, she nearly gasped: they were hard as diamond, not just proud but glittering with an intensity that made her clutch the blankets closer.

"If you come to taunt me, madam, I assure you that my sense of hospitality does not prevent me from seeing you to the door, godforsaken weather outside or no."

She did not know how, but her voice remained miraculously steady in spite of the trembling of her hands. "I speak in earnest."

"Please, elaborate." The harshness of his deep, usually velvet voice belied the politeness of his words. For the first time, Elizabeth was aware of his physical presence; he was so much _larger_, stronger than she was, his hands alone probably capable of circling her neck and squeezing until it snapped. She hid her fear behind a hollow smile.

An arrogant man, prone to emotion, but at least not an indifferent one, which suited her purposes. But an arrogant man would not settle for a wife who sought him purely out of desperation. And, marry she must, for a man like Mr. Darcy, a man who deemed her mother and sisters classless and little better than trash would not help her to support them otherwise. Her father would be rolling in his grave right now, but she – well, she was giving up propriety, love, and her freedom for her family regardless – why not add her integrity to the mix?

"I reconsidered," she stated simply.

He did not move. "Why?"

"Can a lady not change her mind?"

"Unusual, considering you had made your low opinion of my character so very clear."

"Then consider my opinion of your character now far higher." The words left a sour taste in her mouth. To her surprise, he gave a low, caustic laugh – if such a bleak sound could even be characterized as such – clasping his hands together as he faced her at last.

She stared.

There were lines around his eyes that definitely had not previously existed, and the dark circles surrounding them were not at all mere products of the lighting. The sculpted features appeared haggard, almost, little creases around his mouth and between his brow that spoke of too many frowns and not enough laughter. His cheekbones, always aristocratic, appeared more pronounced than ever, a testament to the thinning of his face.

The last three years may not have been good to her, Elizabeth realized, antipathy momentarily forgotten, but neither had they been good to _him_.

"I am afraid that is not enough, Miss Elizabeth. I am not the same man I was three years ago – I was married, you understand."

Brown eyes widened as they settled on the previously-unnoticed plain gold band on his left hand.

"Anne passed away not eleven months ago," he said in response to her silent query. A sardonic smile she did not quite understand touched his lips. "I suppose you will offer your condolences now?"

A genuine twinge of compassion tugged at her. She, too, had lost someone recently – and this man, no matter how disagreeable, had obviously felt the loss keenly.

"I do not believe you want them, and I will not pretend to know the lady in question, but – " she hesitated, searching for the right words – "I am truly sorry for your loss."

A glimmer of something flared in those unfathomable eyes. They softened slightly. "Thank you. But I hope you understand I am no longer interested in a wife."

_No longer interested in a wife_.

Something collapsed at last inside, with the strain of knowing her father, with his dry wit and silent support, was gone forever, with the memory of their humiliating eviction by the Collinses, with the irrefutable evidence that _she had failed_.

The numbness suited her well.

"It is too late for a carriage," she heard him saying as if from a great distance away. "I will have a room arranged for you to stay the night."

"That is very considerate of you," said a voice she recognized after a moment as her own. "I hope it isn't any trouble."

"Not at all."

She swallowed. Determined to avoid staring more than was proper at the hollow of his throat, tanned skin exposed by his lack of a cravat, to maintain her composure any way she could, she reached for the cup of tea at the same time he gripped the glass of port. Their arms collided, and the glass slipped from his grasp, shattering on the hardwood floor with a loud crash.

Her cheeks flamed. "I'm so sorry – "

The sentence was interrupted by the unmistakable wail of a child in the distance. Elizabeth jerked toward the source of the sound, staring uncomprehendingly down the dark corridor.

Mr. Darcy stood abruptly. "My son," he said tightly, as if it was more information than he wanted to give, then strode down the hall. Rising to her feet, Elizabeth hurried after him. It was her fault, after all; she had awakened the child – _he had a son_ –

He burst into the nursery, Elizabeth on his heels. In a fluid, practiced movement, he picked up the crying bundle, shushing his heir in a way that distinctly made Lizzy feel as if she was intruding on an intimate family moment. She could make out only a mop of dark hair and pudgy, flailing hands in the darkness that refused to be calmed.

She watched as Mr. Darcy's jaw clenched in frustration as the child wouldn't quiet after the first few minutes, continuing to cry out until she could bear it no longer –

"Let me," she said quietly.

His throat worked as if he was going to refuse, the tightness around his eyes signaling repudiation. She had overstepped, she knew, broken the rules of respectability first by arriving alone to a gentleman's residence at this hour, then by invading the sanctuary of his son's nursery.

To her shock, he reluctantly placed the boy in her waiting arms.

The weight was warm, delightful, fitting just right as if meant to be there. She had handled babies before, but never had she felt quite like _this _– this indescribable heat from somewhere deep inside, this strange conception of rightness that flowed through her veins. A pair of bright blue eyes blinked at her.

"Shhh," she murmured, rocking him back and forth. "Shhh. You're safe. Your papa's here to take care of you, darling. Everything will be alright." The soothing words continued to spill out, even as she became aware of Mr. Darcy's piercing eyes on her as she cradled his son, until at last the baby hushed and she set him down with a silly smile on her face that she didn't even know she could wear.

Then, in the black of the nursery, hearing only the measured breaths of Mr. Darcy and her own hectic inhalations, did she finally realize the enormity of her presumption.

She had barged into this man's home, demanded marriage, pried about his dead wife, broken his glass of port, and grabbed his son. She closed her eyes, cheeks aflame. No wonder he was not interested – had she been less graceless, might her family have avoided a fate on the streets when their friends' charity inevitably wore out?

"Mr. Darcy, I apologize – "

"You put him back to sleep," he said flatly, speaking over her. "No one can quite manage to do that, and you do it in minutes the first time he sees you."

How to respond to that?

"That offer you spoke of – it is renewed. I will have a special license for us tomorrow."

He could not mean – her hands balled into fists at her side, heart rate speeding. She dared not hope.

"We should be married in two days time," he continued. "A grand ceremony is unnecessary." He turned to exit.

_Married._

"Wait," she called after him, recovering from her paralysis. "What changed your mind?"

A pause.

"I may not need a wife, but George needs a mother."

And with that, he left her quite alone in the darkness.

* * *

><p>AN: So I know I have Vegas going as well, but I just couldn't help trying my hand at Regency when this plot bunny came to mind. Regardless, I will be updating both stories...

Anyway, please tell me what you think via leaving a **review**! Constructive criticism is loved and appreciated - I haven't quite decided whether to continue this or not.

As always, thanks for reading!

Saelia


	2. Light Wind

_**Tempest**_

* * *

><p><span><strong>II.<strong>** Light Wind**  
><em>to carry things away<br>_

**-~O~-**

It was the trill of birdsong that woke her. She drifted in a cloud of spider-silk; she hadn't ever remembered her bed being so soft. Blearily rubbing her eyes, she felt the gentle touch of sunlight on her skin before her eyelids fluttered open and rays of it dominated her vision, the calm after a storm.

She blinked. The sunlight dissipated to reveal a luxurious, red-paneled room that was decidedly _not _the quarters she had shared with Jane at Longbourne.

And with that realization, her memories of the night before crashed into her much like the violent gales she'd braved at Mr. Darcy's doorstep.

Her breath hitched as she pushed herself out of bed, unwilling to rest in the luxurious mattress that was not her own any longer than was necessary. She leaned against the mahogany dresser, somehow feeling drained and exhausted despite just waking up. _Married_. To the man who had proposed by alternatively speaking of an emotion he had never shown and insulting her, to the man who had stolen away her favorite sister's happiness, and to the man who no longer had any interest in her other than to serve as a nursemaid to his son.

Full lips curled into a bitter smile. Not, she thought wryly, that she was any better; if anything, she was more mercenary than he. There was no use in pretending otherwise. She married him for his money and nothing else, and, furthermore, she was willing to deceive him, to pretend that her opinion of him had changed over three years of reflection, in order to do so.

Once, she had vowed to marry for affection. Not so long ago, love and honesty had taken precedence in her mind over worldliness. Circumstances – Papa's untimely death, Mr. Collin's surprising vindictiveness, the Gardiners' misfortune, her family's impending penury – had destroyed that Elizabeth, and this woman that stared back at her in the bureau mirror – the woman with the empty eyes and unsmiling mouth – was what remained.

A knock sounded at her door. She jerked away from the dresser, suddenly very aware that she was only in a thin chemise, her black dress nowhere to be found. "Who is it?"

"Katie, ma'am," came the muffled voice from the other side of the thick oak wood. "Mr. Darcy asked me to bring some gowns over for you to choose from."

Elizabeth flushed as she walked to open the door. So he _had _noticed the state of her dress, last night. She desperately hoped that he did not ask if she wished to send for her possessions – which amounted to nothing, after pawning her brooch for passage on a stagecoach.

A short, slightly plump girl with honey-colored hair curtsied as best she could with a stack of flowing dresses in her arms. "Where might I put these, miss?"

"The bed is fine," Elizabeth replied absently, staring at the garments. All of good, solid make, in black rather than pastels – so he had noticed she was in mourning, too. She chose the plainest, a simple muslin affair instead of brocaded silks and taffetas. "To whom do these dresses belong?"

"Why, Miss Darcy, of course. Begging your pardon, miss, but she's a few hairs taller than you – some pins might do the dress some good."

"That would be appreciated," Elizabeth said, gasping slightly as Katie yanked at the laces of her corset with nimble fingers. "Miss Darcy – is she here at Pemberley?"

"Visiting friends in London at the moment."

Perhaps it was ill of her, but she couldn't help but feel relieved that the sister whom Mr. Wickham had described as so proud was not present. She could barely deal with Mr. Darcy's cold hauteur as it were; she could not imagine staving off Miss Darcy's disapproval as well.

"Hold still – begging your pardon, ma'am, but I'll prick you otherwise."

Elizabeth stopped her restless fidgeting as Katie adjusted her hemline. Although, more concerning than the extra few inches without the pins to hold it in place was the too-tight bust area. She bit her lip.

"The gown – it's not indecent, is it?"

"From what I've seen, the style's all the rage in London." The maid yanked the brush through her unruly curls; she winced. "Oh! I nearly forgot. Mr. Darcy would like to see you in his study when you are presentable."

"Of course," Elizabeth replied through numb lips. _If he had changed his mind_ – for once, she understood how Mother's nerves might truly ail her constitution. She rose to her feet. "The study, you say?"

"On the first floor, ma'am, to the right of the stairs."

"Thank you."

The size of the manse was staggering; it was a longer walk than she had anticipated to reach the study. If nothing else, Elizabeth thought dryly, exercise would not be lacking if she were to live here.

"…married in two days time," a voice drifted through the door. "It reeks of scandal."

The impatient reply, she recognized, was Mr. Darcy's. "Do you truly believe that waiting any longer would be _less _of a scandal? When the news spreads that she stayed the night in the home of an unmarried man without any lady to chaperone?"

"I suppose." A brief moment of silence. "Then you are determined to do this? Even after what happened with Anne?"

Mr. Darcy's tone could have frozen water. "You overstep, Arthur."

"My apologies."

When it became clear that nothing further would be said, Elizabeth rapped her knuckles against the door, feeling faintly guilty for eavesdropping. A creak of hinges sounded. Immediately, she felt those piercing gray eyes on her – their weight tangible against her skin, scourging and peeling off each layer to leave her terribly raw and exposed.

_Fraud_, they seemed to accuse. _Fortune hunter_. _Trollop. _Whore.

She shuddered. It was not because of the draft.

But none of those things sounded when he spoke. His voice was cool, measured and precise like a lump of glass shined a thousand times until not a single ripple of emotion remained. "Miss Bennet, may I introduce Mr. Arthur Lewis, the estate manager of Pemberley. Lewis, Miss Elizabeth Bennet."

Mr. Lewis cast her a sharp look, but bowed nevertheless as she automatically sank into a shallow curtsey. The deep grooves in his craggy face only darkened as he straightened and turned to Mr. Darcy. "I will be going, then."

Startled at his rudeness, Elizabeth watched Darcy give a curt nod of dismissal. The door slammed shut. The elaborate bronze clock on the opposite wall sounded extraordinarily loud in the tense quiet that remained.

"Please, have a seat."

She was grateful for the offer, sinking into the hard mahogany chair; her legs had been trembling underneath her skirts. His desk was massive. An ocean dividing them, it seemed.

Hesitantly, she breached the silence first. "Did I do something to offend Mr. Lewis?"

At last, a hint of motion in those marble planes, a slight thinning of his lips that indicated he was a man of flesh and blood rather than another stone rendition of Michelangelo's David. "No. His reaction has little to do with your actions, and it will not happen again – you will be mistress of Pemberley and respected as such."

_Mistress of Pemberley. _She breathed deeply, pushing down the rising nerves that arose at even the words. "That concerns me," she confessed. "As far as Pemberley goes – it is very beautiful, but I admit I know very little about managing a household of this scale and even less about the society." Full lips curled into a weak smile in an attempt to lighten the mood. "Actually, I'm afraid I'll be quite the country bumpkin."

A furrow formed between Mr. Darcy's strong brows. "You will learn, soon enough. Mrs. Reynolds and Mr. Morris will be here to assist you in household tasks. As far as society goes – your manner will do well enough. It is, from what I remember, relatively pleasing."

The words were flatly delivered, even taciturn, but Lizzy could not prevent the flush rising in her cheeks – the scent of primroses in the air, the heated intensity in his voice, the pounding of her own heart – her carriage must have been more than _relatively pleasing _to have induced such a proposal from him.

And she was capitalizing on it even now. She swallowed, hard. "I very much hope so," she murmured – then, meeting those penetrating grey eyes daringly, almost defiantly, chin tilted up as she gave him the only absolute honesty she could, a hint of the old fire flashing in her dark eyes – "I will do my absolute best to be a credit to your name."

After all, it was the least she could do. The guilt gnawing at her lifted infinitesimally at her resolution – but not nearly enough to shake the uneasiness deep within her.

He nodded stiffly, dispassionately, longer fingers drumming steadily against wood to echo the pounding of her heart. "I appreciate the sentiment. In that vein – of your new role – I called you here to inform you of some of your duties."

Something reflexively inside her bristled at his high-handedness. She inhaled deeply – she owed him her patience, she reminded herself – and plastered a teasing smile on her face. "You speak so sternly that I find myself apprehensive. Is there at all a chance that these are tasks that I will enjoy?"

"My sister, Georgiana, is long overdue for her London debut – however, she needs a female relative to sponsor and chaperone her in society," he stated flatly, ignoring her question. "I hope that you can establish yourself this year to the ton this year, and launch her season the next."

"I – I'm simple country gentry. I know _nothing _about the ton – "

"Social conventions can be taught."

He opened a ledger, eyes skimming its contents. Pinpricks of red showed on her cheeks at his total dismissal of her concerns. Enough was enough – he wasn't even showing her the most basic politeness of fake attention. "Thank you, sir," she snapped, "for your willingness to show me the ways of the civilized."

_That _made him look up.

His gaze traveled over her, almost determinedly _not _lingering on her décolletage, instead choosing to search her face. For some reason, that look – as if he could see deep inside her, past the layers of easy laughter and false comportment – made goosebumps rise on her skin; she suddenly felt too warm in the black muslin.

Whatever he was searching for, he didn't seem find. He smiled sardonically, an expression she'd never seen him wear before, but suited this even more taciturn version of him in a way she did not like.

"And _there _is the Miss Elizabeth Bennet I remember."

It was not a compliment. Anger welled within her. "The one whom you proposed to?"

She had meant for it to wound. Instead, other than a slight tightening around his eyes, his face closed off until it reached utter impassivity. "The one who refused me. I admit this change of heart perplexed me – but I see that your heart is the same as ever."

"Is that supposed to mean something?"

Something unfathomable played across those sculpted features.

"No," he said at last. "Not at all. Is there anyone you would like invited to the wedding?"

_Guests_. A lump rose in Elizabeth's throat – what to do? She could not imagine the most important day of her life without her family and friends around her – and yet, he did not know of their circumstances, nor could she tell him without revealing that she was marrying him for his money and jeopardizing what was to be her family's only source of income. To her irritation, her vision misted slightly, and she felt the first sting of tears.

"No," she said, turning away slightly so he couldn't see that her eyes were too bright with unshed tears. "No one."

Hiding her face as she was, she missed the clenching of his square jaw, the way his knuckles tightened around the pen he held until it was in danger of snapping, before his face hardened and he rose to see her out.

"Very well. In the meantime, I suggest you look to a wardrobe – there is a dressmaker in the village. Mr. Lewis has already set up an account and allowance for you. It would send a positive message to the tenants if you were to look well."

"Of course," Elizabeth said numbly, stepping towards the door. She was already a few feet down the hall when she heard him call to her:

"Don't wear black."

* * *

><p>In the end, Elizabeth chose to wear lavender.<p>

At first, she'd been stunned – irate, even, that he had presumed to dictate that she leave off mourning the man who'd been everything to her in her childhood, her steadfast father, with his biting wit and sharp intelligence.

Then she realized that Mr. Darcy had not even asked her the reason for which she wore black.

It made things easier, she rationalized. This way she did not feel compelled to lie, or to tell half-truths. And it was of no difference to her whether or not he cared enough to ask. It didn't matter, _really_.

The resentment that seeped up within her despite her best efforts to quell it had _nothing _to do with that. Nor did her irrational urge to drape herself in midnight crepe in defiance of his command. But when confronted with the seamstress – Mrs. Bell, a pretty, fresh-faced young woman only just married and full of zest for life – Elizabeth could not withstand the other woman's wide-eyed enthusiasm for the pale silk.

She consoled herself with the fact that it was still the colors of half-mourning, and that it would only be for a day; besides, she was breaking with tradition by marrying only days after her father's death, regardless. What was one more flouting of everything she had ever known and wanted?

It was times like this – moments that had come frequently in the last three days, when the sky seemed like it would never deviate from its monotonous empty bleakness and she felt like a mere shell, hollow, an earthly extension of the flimsy gray clouds – that she stared at the rubbing of her letter stamp she'd made, clinging to it in the palm of her hand until it was rumpled and beginning to crack. The envelope she'd dropped off right after she'd ordered her dress; within it, she enclosed fifty pounds from her new account for her family, with a promise of more on the way. In the unlikely event that Mr. Darcy asked, she would claim that her gowns needed alterations.

Truly, though, Elizabeth doubted he would even notice.

But now she was standing here in the chapel in front of at least a hundred guests – none of whom she recognized – beside her silent groom, dolled up impeccably in a long, flowing silk dress and careful application of powder to hide the listlessness in her face, still clutching the etching of the stamp in her right hand as if it would somehow lend her strength. She could do this. Sign her freedom away. She'd resigned herself to it – she _must _resign herself to it.

Her heart came alive again, hammering as the clergyman began to read their vows. She knew she was supposed to keep her gaze lowered and demure – that was what decorum demanded – but she couldn't help sneak a peek at the cold, handsome features of the man beside her, wondering what he was thinking behind that unfathomable expression. She still found it unbelievable that he had accepted her offer. He could do so much better than her – was he regretting his decision now?

The minister, a man of at least his sixties with graying hair and warm eyes, shifted so his words were directed to Mr. Darcy. "Will you, Fitzwilliam Darcy, love her, comfort her, honor and keep her, in sickness and in health? And forsaking all others, keep only to her as long as you both shall live?"

"I shall," Darcy said gravely – entirely too serious for a statement that was little more than a farce, considering whatever he'd felt for her died long ago. Caught by a sudden, strange sense of amusement, Elizabeth's lips quirked as she expected lightning to strike the church at any moment.

The minister turned to her. "And will you, Elizabeth Bennet, obey him and serve him, love, honor and keep him, in sickness and in health? And forsaking all other, keep only to him as long as you both shall live?"

She swallowed. "I shall."

"Then I now pronounce you man and wife."

As she flung her bouquet of brilliantly colored wildflowers into the air, she accidently lost grip of her etching of the letter. The guests cheered. Even Mr. Darcy wore a small smile, as if he could no longer contain himself.

But Elizabeth saw none of that. Her eyes remained fixed to the tiny paper fluttering in the air as it sailed away on the wind, along with something indescribable that she was sure she would never be able to find again.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** I was completely _blown away _by the response to this story. Thanks so much to everyone for their support. I wanted to quickly address a few questions:

First, I'm in the midst of a rather busy year of school, so I apologize if updates are slow. I want to make this story the absolute best it can possibly be, which involves a bit more editing and deliberation than my usual writing. Second, yes, I'm going to continue updating Vegas as well - don't worry, these two stories will remain my only projects for quite a while! Finally, I very much appreciate constructive criticism - as well as all of your feedback. Please **follow, favorite, and/or review** - all of your questions regarding the backstory (wtf happened during those three years?) will be explained soon!

Yours,

Saelia


	3. Winter Sun

_**Tempest**_

* * *

><p><span><strong>III. Winter Sun<strong>  
><em>a curtain of lukewarm heat<em>

**-~O~-**

The candles might have swept the room with a warm glow, but they failed to make any impact on the chill in her bones. She shivered. Although she was dressed in a thin silk nightgown, hemmed with lace and embroidered with white flowers for purity as was the custom, the cold she felt did not stem from her surroundings.

It came from the waiting.

At last, the light padding of footsteps signaled his arrival. Her grip tightened on the pillow beside her. She did not look up from the book lying open on her lap; at the same time, she also could not focus on the printed black letters, all of which seemed to float into a jumbled mess in front of her eyes.

"Mrs. Darcy," came the low velvet of his voice. It took her a moment to realize he meant her.

"Husband," she replied, the word rolling off her tongue in an entirely foreign manner.

There was a long silence. Elizabeth wondered if he, too, could hear the furious pounding of her heart, to her ears echoing so loudly within the confines of the dark blue walls. What did he expect of her? She had heard stories, and her mother had mentioned what would come in the night: a task to be endured, distasteful but also not entirely uncomfortable after that first pain. Still, with Mr. Darcy…

Unable to bear the tension any longer, she lifted her gaze.

He sat fully-dressed on the side of the bed, observing her, although observing was too paltry a word to describe it – the correct terminology would be more like devouring. Those eyes – usually so hard and cold – drank in every part of her body, shining like quicksilver in the torchlight, as if he wanted to reach out and yank her towards that well-muscled chest. Something heated and tingling pooled at the bottom of her stomach at the very thought. Too flustered to read further, she closed her reading with a gentle snap.

The sound jolted Mr. Darcy out of his reverie. He shook his head slightly, the ever-present crease in his forehead deepening.

"You're trembling."

To her shock, Elizabeth found that she was; her hands shook even as she clasped them together. Embarrassed, she willed them to hold steady. She'd always prided herself on _not _being one of the more vapid, faint-headed females in Meryton. Now, more than ever, she could not afford to lose that strength.

"It's nothing." The little shake in her voice at the end of the sentence horrified her. Her nails dug into the cotton-bound spine of the novel hard enough to leave indentations. "I just find myself tired."

He rose fluidly to his feet and began to douse the candles. "It's been a long day."

Elizabeth watched as he stifled the pinpricks of starlight, one by one, until they were left in the pitch black. She was surprised when she did not hear the rustling of the sheets beside her. As her sight acclimated to the darkness, she found him staring out the window, the silhouette of his broad shoulders and trim hips illuminated by the faint glow of the moon.

When she'd stood there earlier, she'd seen the shimmering waters of the pond and wide expanse of trees, red and gold and impossibly lovely with all the hues of autumn. She was _not _curious about him – had no interest in him – but she could not help but wonder what he saw now, at night, with the world enveloped in the dearth of color that was night. Could he still distinguish the beauty of Pemberley in the grays left behind?

He shifted, the aristocratic profile caught arrestingly by moonlight. She realized she had voiced her question aloud and was grateful that the blackness hid her blush.

"I can always see Pemberley's virtues. But the night has a way of highlighting its faults."

Elizabeth's eyebrows rose at the unexpected response. "From what I saw – " _from what I thought of you_ – "Pemberley has no faults."

"No?" He chuckled, but the sound had a bitter ring to it. "Then you have not been to the garden. I assure you, there are many."

She tilted her head in bemusement. "The gardens appeared wonderful when I walked through them."

"I meant the rose garden. It's closed from the rest of the grounds – you can only see it from this window, and only then when the sun is down; otherwise the pond blinds one's vision."

_Roses_. They had roses at Longbourne: red roses, pink roses, white roses, climbing roses, wall roses, a sea of fragrance. Jane was the one with a gift for cultivating them, but they were Father's idea –

Before she was conscious of her movements, she had stood and walked towards the window, craning her neck and almost pressing her nose into the glass pane. Outside, the pond shimmered as usual, but no longer reflected the brilliance of the sun; in that absence, a small patch of land near the shore became visible to the eye. It was not what she had pictured. Instead, from what she could make out, it was a mess of brambles and overgrown shrubs, not a rose in sight. Yet the plot did not convey wildness; it was too small and perfectly hemmed in for that. It only showed neglect. Abruptly, a wave of melancholy crashed over her.

The accusing question was out of her mouth before she could stop it. "Why is it like this?"

Another long pause. Darcy's eyes did not leave the bramble patch.

"Anne wanted it this way," he said at last.

His voice was oddly devoid of inflection for one speaking of a spouse who'd only passed away not a year ago. The way he said her name sounded almost rehearsed. Elizabeth frowned in puzzlement. "Why – "

With a sudden movement, he yanked the curtains shut. "Goodnight," he stated stiffly, striding back towards the bed.

Hours later, she lay awake, still waiting, but he never moved to touch her.

* * *

><p>Her fingers closed around a glass of cool water, its misty surface enormously soothing on her skin, like a fresh breeze on a too-warm day. The chill lent momentary clarity to her fatigue-fogged mind. She had not rested that night.<p>

He, on the other hand – she felt a faint rush of bitterness – had slept like a log. Until that morning, at least, when he'd risen - her pretending to be asleep - with the sun and vanished to his own rooms. She did not delude herself that he had been there out of affection for her, last night, not when he had ghosted from her rooms without a word; he had only been there to stay the gossip.

"Mrs. Darcy?"

The speaker gave her a bland smile that emphasized her round cheeks, chipmunk-like features carrying more rouge than existed in the entirety of Elizabeth's admittedly negligible cosmetics collection.

"My apologies, Mrs. Semple," murmured Elizabeth, "I must admit I don't know the woman in question, so I cannot comment on the appropriateness of Mrs. Simpson's gown."

Her other guest, a tall, elegantly-dressed brunette, tittered. "Impossible! My dear, _everyone _knows of the scandalous nature of Mrs. Simpson's gown – or the scandalous nature of Mrs. Simpson in general, really."

As the two exchanged covert knowing looks and giggles behind their pristine white gloves, Elizabeth fought the onset of a headache. She had not imagined she would be called upon to play hostess quite so soon, nor that her neighbors would be so absolutely asinine. Not to mention that Mr. Darcy was nowhere to be found. It was not that she desired his presence, but she could not help her irritation at the task of entertaining Mrs. Semple and Mrs. Knight being foisted upon her.

It did not help that all they spoke of was the latest gossip from London, of which Lizzy was painfully ignorant of.

"Her bodice! So lowly cut! I was terribly afraid of an unfortunate accident."

"Not everyone was opposed to the idea," sniffed Mrs. Knight. "That rascal of a lover she has was just _waiting _for the neckline to slip."

"Abigail!" The exclamation was made in a transparently artificial affectation of modesty. The aforementioned woman set down her porcelain teacup with a light clink.

"Don't play naïve. The entirety of the _ton _is privy to the identity of the mistress of the marquess now that he has been seen leaving her townhouse at odd hours. I cannot imagine what the poor marchioness is going through – Mrs. Darcy, darling, are you sure you prefer water?"

"I am." Elizabeth's temples throbbed far too much for either tea or conventions. Besides, she had a feeling that in her present state of mind, no matter how caffeinated, anything warm would make her fall asleep at the table.

Mrs. Knight eyed her curiously. The glint in her jade green eyes reminded Elizabeth of that in a cat's at the discovery of a nearby mouse's feeble hind leg. "You appear a little pale. Is everything alright?"

"Just tired, thank you for your concern."

"How strange."

"I beg your pardon?"

"It's nothing," murmured the brunette. Her painted lips settled into a thin line of feigned sympathy. "It's just – that's so like something Anne would have said, isn't it, Clara?"

"Why, yes, now that you mention it," said Mrs. Semple, blonde eyebrows lifting so high they almost touched her hairline. "She was always struggling with her weak constitution, the poor thing, but she was never so tired as she was during her marriage. I can't help but think that Mr. Darcy – "

"_Clara_."

The low warning from Mrs. Knight silenced the other woman. Suddenly aware that she had said too much, Mrs. Semple straightened the lace cuff of her gown and gave a nervous laugh. "My apologies! How I do run on!"

Aware that she was being watched like a hawk by Mrs. Knight, Elizabeth pasted a gracious smile on her face. "No need to be sorry, Mrs. Semple. The heat is bringing out the worst of us all."

"Yes," Mrs. Semple agreed hastily, grateful for the out offered, "it certainly does feel more like July than October, doesn't it?"

The conversation had safely been redirected to the weather. Some of the tension left Elizabeth's shoulders. It wasn't long after that she was able to politely send the ladies on their way and retire to her rooms on the pretext of not feeling well.

As soon as she was able to, she sank into her mattress. _Their _mattress. But she was too exhausted, too drained, too _empty _to wonder that their marriage remained unconsummated, or that he was actively avoiding her, or that her mother and sisters had yet to write her back, or even the strangeness that pervaded every mention of her predecessor as Mr. Darcy's wife.

Elizabeth Darcy née Bennet simply wrapped her arms around the silk pillows and slept.

* * *

><p>The first thing she noticed was that she was swathed in blankets. Too many of them.<p>

The second was that she was burning up.

"You're awake, I see."

She opened her eyes at the sound of that calm, collected voice and waited for the world to blur back into focus. When it did, she found him sitting in the corner sofa, long legs propped up on a nearby chair, Aristophanes' _The Clouds _in his lap. A candle burned nearly to a stump sat on the bedside table. It illuminated his face, highlighting not only the sharp planes and patrician features but also a set of ridiculously thick, full lashes. Feminine lashes, on anyone else. How had she not noticed them before?

An impatient tap of his foot startled her back into sanity. God's mercy, she was admiring Mr. Darcy's _eyelashes_.

She pushed into a sitting position against the headboard, freeing herself of the many quilts and relishing the feeling of cool air against her skin. "What time is it?"

"About one in the morning. You've been sleeping for over thirty hours."

_Thirty?_ "That's not possible," she said, but not without a trace of uncertainty.

He arched a brow, amused. "I was equally disbelieving until I witnessed it. Trust me, it is."

To have slept for more than a day – "Why did no one wake me?"

"You looked so peaceful in your sleep that no one had the heart."

"But the household – and the callers – I remember someone mentioned something about the Fairchilds coming for tea – not to mention George –"

"All of that can wait." For the first time since she had come to his door sopping wet – or perhaps for the first time since she'd ever known him – his brow furrowed at her, his expression stern. "I don't find you inclined to laziness, and I assumed that you needed rest. I will not have another case of sickness attributed to my negligence."

"I'm _fine_," Elizabeth stated sharply. Too sharply. She did not want to argue – but his arrogance, his belief that he knew what was best for her, grated on her sensibilities. She took a deep breath that expanded her lungs to the fullest and imagined her irritation flooding out of her. _He is simply concerned. That is both unexpected _and _kind. _Perhaps she was being unfair –

"It hasn't escaped my attention that two nights ago, you were trembling; last night you essentially fainted. And I have never seen you this pale. You are _not _'fine.'"

Any thoughts of being the unreasonable one vanished. Always he was the one with the best judgment. The one who made choices. Like when he was congratulating himself on having lately saved a friend from the inconveniences of a most imprudent marriage, having been kinder to Bingley than he was to himself.

"You know nothing about me," she said in heated tones. "I am _not _ill, just tired. Nor am I one to let go of responsibilities. There is no need to concern yourself so with the minute details of my health. You married me for George's sake, sir."

There was a sort of rising anger in the low, controlled nature of his voice, the set of his jaw, the burning in those eyes of molten silver. "I may have married you for George – but, pray tell me, Mrs. Darcy, for I have struggled hard with this question for the past few days, why did you marry _me_?"

_That _hit hard.

_Because of your money. Because I was terrified my sisters would starve in the slums of London. Because you were my best hope._

She remained silent.

As the minutes passed, his visage grew colder, the fire frosting over with a deep-seeded layer of ice. She felt something inside her shiver, her mouth trying to form words but not knowing what to say. _I love you _was blatantly false. _I care for you _was little better. _Your checking account _would be honest, but she could not imagine how he would react. Would he strike her in rage? Remain indifferent – she was no more than a member of the staff in his opinion? Leave her? She could not have him do that – she needed money for her family.

At moments like this, she truly hated herself.

"I – I can't say."

It may have been true, but it left her feeling dirty inside, like there were oil stains and filth that would never come out. He stared at her as if he could see them. As if he could bore into _her._

She wished he wouldn't look at her like that, because she did not believe he would like what he found and had no wish to see it reflected his eyes.

And then his lips curled into a faint, ironic smile, although the corners of his eyes were still too tight for humor and the rage had merely given way to hardness. "It doesn't matter. I will not make the mistake of concerning myself with your welfare again."

"That's not – I – "

"Goodnight, Mrs. Darcy."

He left her, then, alone in her bedroom except for a familiar feeling she distinctly recognized as guilt.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **I thought it might be worthwhile to noted that, as of 5/15/15, this chapter was updated to emphasize the fact that Darcy and Lizzy keep separate bedrooms after the first night of marriage. As always, thanks so much for reading, and please favorite/review!


	4. First Drops

_**Tempest**_

* * *

><p><strong><span>IV. First Drops<span>**  
><em>cool against one's skin<em>

**-~O~-**

Elizabeth walked briskly back from the village, relishing each breath of crisp November air. It had become routine to hand her letters to the post boy in person every Sunday morning. This one was no exception.

She was, however, in more of a rush to return than usual. George had been fussing when she'd left. That in itself had been unusual. George was a remarkably easy baby. But the mail service operated on a schedule, and she'd regretfully left him to the care of one of the maids.

Lost in thought, she collided with a flurry of lavender.

"I'm so sorry!" Mortified, Elizabeth reached out with a gloved hand to help her victim up. "Are you alright?"

"Perfectly so, other than my pride." The young woman moved to brush the dust off her wool coat and winced. "Spoke too soon. Regardless, I suppose we're past the stage of formal introductions – I'm Miss Felicity Trent."

"Mrs. Darcy."

The other woman smiled. It lit up the entirety of her face. "A pleasure. I'm rarely blessed with the occasion to encounter a lady with such a mean elbow jab, intentional or not."

"Or cursed with such incorrigible clumsiness."

"Don't worry about it, really. It's my fault for walking into you, too, and I fall so often myself that this is merely another drop in the bucket. Besides, it's given me an excuse to speak to the mysterious Mrs. Darcy herself – you're the talk of the county."

Elizabeth raised a brow. She was not unaware that her hasty marriage would spur gossip – but nor had she thought the talk would last so many weeks. "Does the county have nothing better to speak of?"

"No," Miss Trent stated cheerfully. "You're famous for being elusive during the short calls you pay, and for being equally so when people return them. It's the reason I never left _my _calling card."

"I didn't realize that I was such an enigma."

"It's probably not even _you_, really. But the previous Mrs. Darcy didn't pay many social calls, and Mr. Darcy has become rather reclusive himself. You're just the latest in the whole saga."

"The saga?"

Miss Trent winked. "Oh, nothing concrete, of course. All speculation. But there _are_ some incredible rumors floating around. Miss Rosamund Fletcher for one is quite convinced that you're a magnificent heiress whom Mr. Darcy married to keep Pemberley from ruin, while Miss Lisa Turner firmly believes you to be a scullery maid in disguise."

Once, Lizzy would have laughed at that until tears streamed from her eyes. Even now she could not help but smile faintly.

"If it helps, I can assure you I am neither."

"As if I needed it. _I _am certain you are a lost princess hiding from a malicious uncle set on preventing you from inheriting your rightful throne."

"Royalty – now you've superseded even heiresses."

Miss Trent giggled. "I know, I know. Mother always tells me to stop reading those sensational penny novels of Mrs. Radcliffe's, but I can't help it. With plots like _that _– all that's missing is the dashing knight to save the princess, really – it's entirely too difficult not to. I'm an aspiring writer myself, though, so I can rationalize it by considering it studying the competition." She wrinkled her pert nose. "Come to think of it, I _can _write a better novel – a child, for instance, a secret baby prince who is not really a prince, just that everyone _believes _he is a prince – "

_Children. George_.

Elizabeth's eyes widened. She couldn't believe she'd forgotten.

"My apologies," she cut in as soon as Miss Trent paused – it wasastonishing how many words the other woman could get out in one breath – "but I must be going."

"Oh! I completely understand. I do run on at times," the blonde said ruefully. Her bright green eyes, however, lost none of their sparkle. "But please, Mrs. Darcy, _do _call tomorrow afternoon. Otherwise I shall dieof boredom having tea with Mother and her friends – 'Felicity, dear, sit straight! Felicity, do not chatter so much – it is unladylike.' Felicity this, Felicity that!"

The smile came to Elizabeth's lips with only a little beckoning, a rarity since her life had changed so drastically. There was something so irreverently cheerful about Miss Trent.

"I shall. Have a good day, Miss Trent."

"You as well, Mrs. Darcy."

With that, Elizabeth hurried back to Pemberley.

* * *

><p>"And he rustled his feathers, curved his slender neck, and cried joyfully, from the depths of his heart, 'I never dreamed of such happiness as this, while I was an ugly duckling,'" Elizabeth read softly, gently setting the book down by the candleholder. She smiled fondly at the yawning infant – capable of understanding the words or not, he seemed to greatly enjoy the story, cooing and gurgling noisily at the beginning, then gradually drifting off into sleep. Those wide cerulean eyes finally fluttered shut.<p>

Bending down, Elizabeth quietly blew out the flame and made her way out of the nursery.

As the days had inched by – the three weeks since she'd first come to Mr. Darcy felt more like three years – she had quickly discovered little George to be her saving grace at Pemberley. His was a face usually smiling to see her, his tantrums easily pacified, his laughter sparking a reciprocal lightness in her steps.

The same could not be said for his father.

Since their argument, they had engaged in avoidance entirely too successfully for it not to be mutual. He rose early at dawn to conduct his business and did not attend meals with her. Her inability to rest soundly meant she awakened with him no matter how silent he managed to be, and in spite of the thick wall dividing their rooms, but she always feigned sleep as she listened to every rustle of clothing, every soft thud. Afterwards, they performed their separate duties: she presumed he took care of the estate and various investments, although she never asked, and for her part she hosted social calls and slowly tried to familiarize herself with the running of the household. In short, they rarely saw each other at all.

In a way she was glad. She did not know what to say to him – she regretted losing her temper the last time they'd truly spoken. _So much_, she had thought wryly, _for being a good wife_.

Elizabeth was not entirely blind. In hindsight, she was aware her dislike – although that she did not think baseless – had colored his every action in her eyes. If they were ever to coexist in any semblance of contentment, that had to change. Marriage was forever. She had spoken her vows, and now there was no way out.

She shivered a little at the finality of it and quickened her pace. The end of the corridor quickly approached. _Left, _she remembered, from her first day exploring the labyrinth of Pemberley –

There was no left turn.

Elizabeth stared. She was _sure _that there was supposed to be a left to take her back to the main foyer. Lifting her candle higher to cast light on the hallway, she spun to examine her surroundings – and found she had never seen that particular bust of Achilles before in her life.

No. It wasn't possible. She could not have been as foolish as to have gotten _lost_.

Except, three equally unfamiliar rooms later, it was apparent that she had.

She sank against the wall. Both hands covered her mouth to suppress the laughter. She was _not _hysterical. Truly, she was not. But it was just too much. The man haunted her at every turn. He turned her into a shrew in his presence. He made her an imbecile in his absence. She simply could not win.

A giggle fought free despite of her best efforts to contain it. It echoed, ricocheting around the tapestry-covered walls, unbearably loud in the dead silence that pervaded this part of the house. To Elizabeth's shock, she barely recognized it. She realized that her throat-muscles felt rusty from disuse.

She had not laughed since her father passed.

It suddenly occurred to her that of all the questionable things she had done since his death, this may have disappointed him most.

_There is always laughter. Remember, from the ridiculous to the sublime is but a step_, she remembered him saying to her, only a year ago. He had been hale and hearty back then. A whole man, one who emitted quiet strength if not overt vitality.

_You must be approaching your dotage, Papa, _she had teased him_, to so misuse the words of our dear petit caporal – it is 'from the sublime to the ridiculous.'_

He had quirked an eyebrow in response. His eyes had danced with amusement in the way only Papa's could. _If it is merely a step from the sublime to the ridiculous, then wouldn't it be a single step the other way as well? _

God, how she missed him.

The same dull ache in her chest sharpened. There was a faint wetness on her cheek. When her fingers reached up to swipe it away, she was not surprised to see the sheen of tears on her skin.

She gritted her teeth and straightened. With all the internal strength she could muster, she pushed away the thoughts, although the muted pain lingered as always. She would not wallow in her grief. It had already taken her mirth – she would not let it take anything more.

Picking up her candle from the ground, she began walking. If she simply wandered, eventually she would come across one of the staff, or a room she recognized. Until then she could pretend this was an adventure. A chance to explore. She slipped into the next hall. Intending to move on, her legs carried her quickly across the Persian carpet – until she froze at the sight of the softest grey eyes she had ever seen.

She raised her light higher. It was a rendition of a boy no more than twelve. The artist's skill was displayed in each delicate stroke forming the small smile, the still-delicate nose, the already stubborn chin. Still, there was something more. An understated self-assurance in the squaring of his shoulders, perhaps, or the kindness in the curve of his lips, or even the upward slant of his gaze, as if he was dreaming of something far away. Drawn by something in her that she couldn't name, she leaned in closer to make out the inscription in the bottom right corner: _F. Darcy, William Haughton in 1796_.

Her eyes widened in disbelief. _It couldn't be._ But as she examined the portrait again, this time cutting past to the individual features themselves, she found unmistakable signs of the man she knew. The sharp jaw. The shape of the lips, full, but not feminine. The hints of diamond-sharp cheekbones.

But this mirage had none of the arrogant posture, the taciturn frown, the deep circles around his eyes. Nor did it possess the cold silence, the curt manners, the enduring gravity. What had changed? The two were impossible to reconcile. Yet, that they were the one and the same could not be denied.

Suddenly, inexplicably compelled to feel the layers of paint under her skin, to persuade herself she was not imagining it all, she reached out towards the boy's brow –

"What in God's name are you doing?"

She jumped. The candle teetered precariously in her grip as she whirled around. Stepping too quickly in her fright, she tripped on the hem of her skirt. _Stupid, stupid, stupid_. Her elbows went out to brace herself for impact.

A firm hand gripped her arm, drawing her close and steadying her on her feet. She could tell he had made the motion without even thinking.

"My apologies, Mr. Darcy," she muttered, flushing a deep red. She rather wished the earth would open up and swallow her whole. "I didn't see you."

He ignored her attempt to relieve her embarrassment. This near, she could see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the curt line of his mouth. "The entire household is in an uproar looking for you."

There was a furious bite to his words. Bristling, Elizabeth opened her mouth to retort – then caught sight of the gaze of the boy in the portrait. The anger dimmed. She looked closer at the man. The tight frown, the intent stare – was that _worry_?

He had been concerned, she realized. _For her._

Incredibly, her heart pounded a little faster.

"Not only have I succeeded in misplacing utensils and paper at every turn, but apparently now also myself," she said self-deprecatingly, feigning lightness. "I'm sorry for any trouble."

"How did you wander into the gallery, of all places?"

"I was – distracted." As she was now. It was enormously difficult to concentrate, with his hand upon her elbow, his standing so close to her. Her face heated. She might not like him, but she could not deny that he was an attractive man. She took a deep breath to clear her head. It was a mistake. He smelled of shaving cream and sandalwood and pine needles, of clean linen and patchouli. She suddenly felt too warm.

Desperately seeking something else to focus on, she blurted out the first thing that came to mind: "The woman painted there. Who is she?"

He turned to follow her line of sight to a likeness of a tall woman sitting regally atop a chaise, features handsome rather than pretty."My mother." At the widening of her dark eyes, he answered her unspoken question: "She passed away when I was eighteen."

"Oh."

His eyes softened at her obvious regret for broaching the topic. "It was many years ago. I've made my peace with it."

"The time, then? It makes it better?"

"To some extent."

"Really."

He hesitated, shoulders stiff with discomfort, but plowed forward anyway. "The grief fades, although it never goes away. For some, at least. There are occasions where it's impossible to let any of it go."

She imagined the pain of Papa's absence dissipating until it became like breathing, unnoticed except on specific occasions such as his birthday, or the anniversary of his death. Like castles in the air, the concept remained just out of reach. And even if she tried to move on – what if she forgot? It had only been a matter of weeks, and already she could not remember the exact way he smiled. One day his face might vanish entirely.

The candle flame blurred. Damn it, she was _not _crying in front of Mr. Darcy. She turned her face away to hide the overly bright sheen of her eyes. Too late.

"Is something wrong?"

_No_, she meant to say. _I'm fine_. _Don't concern yourself._ But no one had asked her in the weeks since the loss finally hit her. It was all so carefully internalized out of necessity.

She'd been _so alone _at Pemberley. His inquiry – perfunctory as it might be – broke a dam.

And then she was weeping, like an idiot, hiccupping and sobbing, and all she could think of was that Papa was gone and he was never coming back. She was barely aware of Mr. Darcy gently plucking the candle from her shaking hand and pulling her to him, bracing her against his chest. He said nothing; she appreciated the lack of meaningless platitudes.

They stayed that way for a long while. She rested against him, listening to his heartbeat, until her breathing finally evened out and some semblance of rational thought returned. And then it hit her.

She'd broken down in the presence of _Mr. Darcy_. And he'd held her while she'd cried.

_And it had felt so, so good._

Awkwardly, she stepped out of his embrace. "Thank you for taking the candle." Her voice trembled at the end and she hated herself for it. "I might have inadvertently burned down this side of the manor."

"It's alright. I was never particularly fond of the east wing."

She blinked, embarrassment forgotten. Was that – a joke? She scanned his face. It was blank, polite, except for the faint amusement in those steel grey eyes – _it was a joke_.

And it was there, standing in a forgotten portrait gallery, her in her disheveled state with swollen eyes and a bright red nose, him in a jacket distinctly wet near the collar, that Elizabeth felt the first stirrings of hope.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Updated 5/15/15 for same reason as previous chapter (correcting the living situation).

For some reason this week, I could actually write - I churned out both a chapter of this and a chapter of _Vegas_. Wow. As always, thanks so much to everyone for reading and reviewing. I'm still trying to get over the level of response this story has received - it's certainly an inspiration. Hopefully, this chapter was a little less gloomy than previous ones.

And, of course, **reviews** are greatly appreciated :) Please do drop by with one!

-Saelia


	5. Slight Thaw

**A/N: This is a repost of a chapter with significant modification towards the ending (as of 2/8/2015). Next chapter should be posted shortly! **

* * *

><p><span><strong>V. Slight Thaw<strong>  
><em>trivialities, really<br>_

**-~O~-**

A high-pitched wail threatened to shatter Elizabeth's eardrums. Wincing, she gave George a stern stare before capitulating and lifting him from the cradle. "Stop that," she murmured, tickling his chin as she settled him on her lap. He blinked at her and gurgled cheerfully, all petulance forgotten instantly.

"You're very good with him," observed Katie, watching curiously from over Elizabeth's shoulder. "'S like he's known you forever."

Something warm flared inside Elizabeth. She clasped a small hand, watching her charge wriggle his fingers with amusement. "He's affectionate in general."

"If you say so, ma'am."

Elizabeth shook her head at Katie's disbelieving mutter, hiding a smile. It was hard to deny that she and George shared a special rapport, one that grew rapidly since her arrival a month earlier. Perhaps it was some subconscious feeling of displacement that even an infant could sense that they had in common, he without his mother and she the mistress of an unfamiliar place.

"Katie!" Mrs. Reynolds bustled into view. At the sight of Elizabeth, she dipped into a quick, shallow curtsey. "Pardon the interruption, ma'am. Katie, Mr. Morris is ill with a cold – you're needed in the kitchens. Now."

Elizabeth frowned, rising to her feet and placing George back in his crib. "Has he tried elderberry wine?"

"We're clear out," the housekeeper said brusquely. A few strands of brown escaped her militantly tight bun as she hurried Katie out of the nursery.

"Syrup, then. If I could see the cabinet – "

"Please, don't worry yourself over it, Mrs. Darcy."

"On the contrary." Mr. Morris, the aging butler, had always been kind to Elizabeth – showing her the rooms, ensuring she wasn't lost, pointing out the members of the household. "It's the least I can do."

She made her way towards the medicine cabinet. It was relatively close, considering the necessity of speed in the event the children fell sick, but in a manse the size of Pemberley, 'relatively close' took on a very different meaning than it did at Longbourn.

With an ease born of sheer repetition, she ground white sugar and anise and dissolved them into a little chalice of steaming liquorice-water, watching the crystals gradually stop flashing and disappear into a smooth liquid. Her hands moved to pour the honey in the same way she had done a thousand times for Jane and Kitty, both of whom tended towards weaker constitutions.

It soothed something inside her she hadn't realized was wanting. To be useful. She might not know how to be a grand lady of Pemberley. But at least she knew this.

Pouring the herbal remedy into a cup, she started on her way back. She passed imposing busts and ornate tables and delicate vases. And a gleaming wooden door, the door of Mr. Darcy's study, that was just a little bit ajar.

" – I cannot for the life of me understand what you were thinking! And that I was not _invited _to the ceremony – not that I would have attended – the gravest of insults – "

Darcy cut coldly across the shrill feminine diatribe. "You made it very clear, Aunt, during the last occasion we spoke that you did not want to continue a familial relationship. I assumed that meant you did not need to be informed when I remarried."

Lizzy's breath quickened. She knew she should continue walking, that this was a gross violation of her husband's privacy. But the next words she heard made her blood freeze to ice in her veins.

"Because I had not expected you to desecrate the memory of my Anne by marrying that grasping harlot!"

_Harlot_. The word seared her with the heat of a branding iron.

There was a long, tense pause.

And then a forceful crash sounded from the inside of the study, and Mr. Darcy's voice resounded again, quiet but with a deadly intensity she had never heard before. "Get out."

"Pardon me?"

"Get out," he repeated. It was a controlled, measured phrase, but even without seeing the scene, the unbridled fury underneath sent a shiver down Elizabeth's spine. "You will not speak of my wife that way in this house. Out, before I have you escorted."

"Well, I never – "

"Out!" Mr. Darcy roared.

At that, the sound of rapid footsteps neared the door, and Elizabeth – cowardly as it was– ran, heart thumping and thoughts in a daze.

That she was not the ideal match did not come as a surprise. But she had not known that he faced such censure from his relatives for his marriage, not to this degree. Had not guessed that not only was she regarded as not of sufficient dowry and lineage but also as a – as a woman of low moral repute, willing to do anything to receive money and status.

And the worst of it was how close it was to the truth.

Yet he had defended her so vehemently.

_That _had shocked her to the core. She had never envisioned him so angry; the sheer will in his response, in fact, she had never heard displayed by anyone. Mr. Darcy was not a man to cross. That should have made her wary. Instead, she was only grateful.

Wordlessly passing off the cold syrup to Katie, Elizabeth headed to her rooms to think.

* * *

><p>The porcelain weighed heavily in her hands. Smooth and dainty and blue china, the cup was as removed from Longbourn as the silk curtains and dark cherry furniture. Elizabeth set it back on the table with a clink as she heard the padding of footsteps.<p>

Maybe rising early enough to meet her husband hadn't been such a good idea after all.

Yet, yesterday – when she'd curled up upon the mattress, unable to sleep, she'd wondered. She did not like him. She was not sure whether she _could _like a man with his cold, impassive manner and infinite pride. But he was not unkind, in his distant, taciturn way. And she could not forget that he had held her when she cried despite their argument; that he would defend her to others regardless of his personal feelings; that he had, for whatever reason, married her in her moment of need.

Perhaps it was time to hold out the olive branch. To take responsibility for making the best of what she had.

"Good morning, Mr. Darcy."

At her words, he stopped at the threshold. The light bursting in from the windows emphasized the slight stubble on his firm jaw. She wondered whether it would be soft against her skin, or prickly and hard –

_No_. Her cheeks turned pink.

Thankfully, he didn't comment; instead, irritatingly impassive, he took the seat across from her. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

She hesitated. "I wanted to apologize for crying all over your coat. I hope I didn't ruin it."

"You didn't."

They lapsed into uncomfortable silence as Katie served warm toast. Even the heavenly smell couldn't provoke Elizabeth's appetite. She clasped clammy hands on her lap. There was no _reason _to be nervous, yet her tongue was a lump of lead in her mouth.

Gathering her courage, she blurted out, "I also hoped we might try to be friends."

Those sharp grey eyes, which seemed to miss nothing, drilled into her. It was all she could do to not flinch.

"Why?"

"It'll be a rather uncomfortable rest of our lives, otherwise." She attempted a smile. "At the least, it doesn't make sense for us to continue as strangers. Perhaps we might get to know one somewhat."

"And how, madam, do you propose to do that?"

Although his expression remained blank, courteous as ever, there was a definite trace of irony in those slow, drawling words. _Arrogant, presumptuous – _no. _Positives, Lizzy._ She inhaled deeply and forged on. "I thought we might spend a meal together each day. Dinner, perhaps. Converse a little." _Try to make this work_.

He stared, then blearily rubbed his eyes with his palms. The movement drew attention to the faint hollows underneath, where telltale signs of too little sleep had not diminished in all the time Elizabeth had spent at Pemberley. "It's too early for this."

She lifted a winged brow. "Youare the one who rises with the sun."

"Only I prefer to get an early start. There are many items to take care of."

"May I ask what?"

"Visiting the tenants, accounts, various investments, correspondence. Routine things – not precisely the tasks of legends," he said dryly. "I confess to being at a loss regarding the cause of this sudden interest."

_Resignation. Curiosity. Guilt_. She focused her gaze on her food, probing her warm slice of toast with her butter knife. Her heart inexplicably hammered in her chest at an entirely unreasonable speed. "It's nothing, really. Just that I realized that it's been nearly a month since I – since I came here, and I still know nothing about how you spend your day. Or your family. Or anything, really, about you."

He said nothing, which, Elizabeth was coming to find, was not unusual. But those eyes – _beautiful eyes _– widened ever so slightly.

For a moment, she forgot that he was the man who ruined Jane's future, who looked down on her and her family as unworthy of his attention, and remembered only the steady drumming of his heartbeat as she leaned against the muscled planes of his chest.

"If you don't mind," she said quietly, "I would like to learn."

* * *

><p>Fitzwilliam's breath quickened.<p>

_He had not expected this. _

Memories flashed before him in his mind's eye: of the first time he'd seen her, when he'd been drawn to the glimmer in those dark eyes like a moth to flame even as he outwardly distanced himself; of the razor-sharp wit she displayed during their walks and arguments; of when her porcelain cheeks flushed with passion while she fervently declared that she would not have him.

The grim irony of the situation did not escape him: now that what he had wanted so desperately was finally within reach, he could no longer afford to accept.

The clatter of a china cup being set down on the table reminded him that she was waiting for an answer.

"Of course," he said, voice remarkably even. "What would you like to know?"

She bit her lip. An unconscious habit that drew his attention to the lush lines of her mouth without fail. "Tell me about your sister?"

"Georgiana?"

"I saw a portrait of her last night," she explained quickly. She'd colored slightly, a healthy rose now present in her too-pale complexion. "It came to me that I don't even know how old she is – embarrassing, considering we are family."

"Nineteen, this year."

Her eyes widened. "And she has not had her debut?"

"No," he replied curtly. His grip on his fork tightened on reflex, knuckles turning white. The incident with Wickham was not one he cared to remember. As a result of it, his sister had become increasingly uncomfortable in unfamiliar company, to the extent that a London season was out of the question.

Darcy was not unaware that Georgiana's marriageable years were rapidly bypassing her. While he would happily support her for the rest of her days, it infuriated him that, because of George Wickham, she might never have the opportunity to choose.

"Oh."

He softened at the quietly uttered syllable, forcing his hands to relax. She was, if her stiff posture and restless hands were any indication, trying quite hard to create something out of this sham of a marriage.

"She is an excellent pianist."

She looked up, startled, then gave a hesitant smile.

"Does she have a favorite composer?"

"Haydn. His work is almost an obsession. She practices trios day in and day out – if she could, I think she would marry the pianoforte." He made no attempt to keep the wry amusement out of his voice. "There was a time when she wanted to be a professional musician, before our father managed to talk her out of it."

"She must be very proud of her work."

"To the contrary, actually. She prefers to exalt her own 'mediocrity' over skill."

Mrs. Darcy gave a rather surprised laugh. The sound was sunlight against his skin. "That is – unusual. If she were training to be a professional, I believe her instructor would be in the rare position of being exasperated over humility."

"I'm afraid that is _my _position."

"Lack of appreciation for modesty?"

The silverware clinked as it contacted the plate, a sliver too loud just as her comment rang a shred too familiar. "Modesty is an admirable quality. But if one possesses notable achievements, it is not out of line to recognize their worth."

"No, I suppose not – within the realm of reason, that is, and without an unflinching sense of superiority."

The square, direct way she met his gaze shot straight to some forgotten organ underneath his chest. Elizabeth never hesitated to say what she meant, never simpered; instead, that laughing challenge always rested in every smile, every movement. Her candor had pulled him in with an ease that marriage-minded mothers would have killed for.

That same candor had bludgeoned him in refusal. And that had been _before _everything changed.

Before he'd changed.

"I'm afraid I am scheduled to see to the tenants this morning," he said abruptly, rising from the table. He turned to leave, not caring that he was being unforgivably rude. "Good day, Mrs. Darcy."

"Wait."

He stopped.

"May I come with you?" Her voice was almost shy. _Shy _fit oddly with a face designed to be bold. When he didn't immediately reply, she babbled. "I should have greeted the villagers long ago. It's just been – overwhelming – and I still haven't seen all of Pemberley's grounds. They're so very beautiful, from the windows, and I just – Unless you're too busy."

He shouldn't. But his resolve to distance suddenly seemed far off, a mirage on the horizon to be swiftly forgotten.

"You may accompany me if you wish."

The corners of her lips, pink and full, turned upwards. Warmth jolted to his heart. "Thank you."

He was a fool for acquiescing.

But when she grinned like that, he found himself wishing to be foolish.


	6. Partly Cloudy

**Note: The ending to the previous chapter was modified on 2/8/2015; rereading will probably help this chapter make sense.  
><strong>

* * *

><p><span><strong>VI. Partly Cloudy<strong>  
><em>the world splits in strange ways<br>_

**-~O~-**

Elizabeth trailed after Darcy. The path was picturesque, its leafy autumn backdrop complete with effusive yellow undertones like something out of a Rococo landscape, all soft colors and expressive warmth. Her silent companion, however, showed no sign of appreciation. Instead, his long strides held an innate impatience, the walk of a man forever with a destination that was not in the present.

She gritted her teeth and hiked her skirts to her ankles, not caring how unladylike she seemed as long as she kept up. If he was so set on ignoring her very presence, he should not have issued the invitation.

"Where are we headed, Mr. Darcy?"

"The stables," he replied, brusque as ever. "I thought we might ride to the village, while the roads are still safe enough to allow it."

_Ride. _Elizabeth swallowed. "I have not ridden – " _since Papa fell ill _– "for some time, now. Besides," she added with a tight smile, remembering days long past, when deflecting Caroline Bingley's petty barbs and Jane's health had been her only concerns, "I have always been more of a 'great walker.'"

He finally slowed. In the bright rays of sun – had she never seen him in the time since they'd married in full light? – she thought she saw flecks of gold and green in that calm, inscrutable gaze, touches of spring within unyielding steel.

"I thought you'd enjoy the exercise. Considering how quickly you walk, I can't imagine you would dislike the speed a good mount affords."

"I only walk quickly to match _you_. Forgive me, sir, but I'm convinced that you're entirely unaware of the skill involved in my doing so, as _you_ have never worn a gown."

It startled her when he gave a surprised laugh, deep and rich and velvet; inexplicably, her heart skipped a beat. She'd regretted the words the moment she'd finished – too teasing, too irreverent for a proud character like Mr. Darcy – except there was definite amusement in that low chuckle, that slow smile in his rejoinder.

"No one has accused me of wearing skirts since I refused to slip a frog into Thomas Hardbridge's desk at Eton."

She couldn't resist. "You ought to try," she said archly. "That, and a corset, both build character. Women are laced into bone frames and then summarily expected by society to move elegantly; forget elegance when _movement _is the issue."

"Oh?" He lifted a brow. "I think you move very well, Mrs. Darcy."

The faint huskiness in his voice sent a shiver down her spine. She took his proffered arm, smiling blithely as if the touch didn't affect her. She did not understand him – so callous one second, so warm the next. Where was the man who resented her, who wronged Wickham and robbed Jane? And who was _this _man – the one who held her while she cried, who teased her in return to match her impudence, who spoke of his sister with such glaring fondness?

It gave her a headache, thinking about it; moreover, it made the guilt at the bottom of her stomach pool and chill until it consolidated into an iciness that permeated her entire body. They made their way to the stables in steady steps, Elizabeth trying to ignore the ease with which they coordinated, the proximity in which they stood, hoping for the cold to dissipate.

She focused on the sight ahead and gasped.

The horses all positively gleamed. Midnight Arabians, honey-colored geldings, black stallions, all muscular lines and strong legs and glistening manes, marks of incredible breeding. There'd been a time at Longbourn when she'd loved to ride, when she was younger, on a sweet old mare, her own Bianca. But those were the days of her childhood, before Bianca had passed and her family decided there was no need for new horseflesh.

"Here," Darcy said, leading her towards a stall at the very end. "The grooms have saddled Lucy for you." He hesitated, then added: "I hope she is to your liking."

"She is," Elizabeth murmured, leaning across the wooden barrier to run her hand along the dappled grey's silky, gleaming clank. Spotting a bruised apple near the stall, she offered it to the horse. The mare tossed her head – almost as imperious as her master, Elizabeth thought with some amusement – and snatched up the bribe between teeth.

Lucy finished the fruit with what Elizabeth could have sworn was a pleased glint in Lucy's intelligent eyes and allowed Lizzy to lead her out of the stables onto the meadow. Lizzy stared up at the tall sidesaddle, trying to recall how to mount. It'd been so long – but she'd missed the feeling of being on horseback, of being so _free _–

Silently, as if reading her mind, Darcy extended a hand. She took it, ignoring the tingling through her gloves, desperately dismissing the brush of long fingers against her waist as he helped her up, and waited from her vantage point as he swung across his own mount. It was a smooth, sinuous action, horse and rider mere extensions of each other like something out of Arthurian legend.

"Do you remember now?"

His inquiry shook her out of her brief reverie. Grasping the reins, she inhaled deeply to soothe her clamoring heart and clicked her heels.

And then she was flying, racing down the meadow, feeling the wind yank pins out of her hair and watching the browning grass blur seamlessly into a mass of earthy color. It was like floating, this feeling, the stress of her marriage, her family's situation, and her grief melting away with the trees behind her. The cool late November air stung her skin and froze her cheeks. She embraced the numbness. Never had not-feeling been such a luxury.

The thudding of galloping hooves rang out behind her. Reluctantly, she pulled on the reigns as her husband approached on a chestnut stallion, all powerful leaps and masculine grace. He, too, slowed to a trot as he came even with her. There was a tightness around his eyes that he could not hide.

"That was reckless." She bristled, because he was right, because it had been so _good _to let go.

"I knew what I was doing."

The set of his jaw transformed his features from the intensity of a David to the sternness of an Apollo Belvedere. "Tell me then, when was the last time you rode?"

His demand would have angered her had there not been such distinct panic just receding from his brow. Instead, the answer to his question drifted to mind. _Almost a year ago_.

She breathed in sharply. It had been euphoria, but also careless, unthinking ecstasy. What would happen to her family if she fell?

"Enough time that I suppose I _was _reckless. I just – I hadn't realized how much I missed it. Riding, I mean."

The rigidity melted out of his frame at her admission. She readjusted her bonnet from its windblown position, suddenly aware of how disheveled she appeared in comparison to Darcy's elegant waistcoat and unruffled cravat.

"I'm glad you enjoy it." He paused, something unreadable in his eyes. "You are – exceptional, on a horse."

"Thank you," she replied, startled by the compliment. If Darcy had one redeeming quality, it was being honest to a fault. Such sincere appreciation from someone who rode as well as he was gratifying.

They made their way to the village in a strangely companionable silence. She was content to revel in the crisp air, in the sight of the beautiful willows, in Lucy's smooth gait as they rode into Kympton. Between the dipping foliage, the rounded edges of well-kept buildings, and the pebbled pathways, the village's scenery could not be considered anything short of idyllic. It was a wonder that Darcy had developed such an arctic demeanor while growing up in such a locale.

Except he _wasn't_ made of ice. The way he'd looked at her today in the meadow –

She slammed the door shut on those thoughts.

They reached the parsonage first. It was, like the small residencies she'd seen on the way, neatly kept, with carefully trimmed gardens and polished gates. With a start, Elizabeth realized that this was where Wickham would have lived had he not been cheated of his due. No sooner than she made the connection did the oaken doors swing open.

"Mr. Darcy!" A beaming blonde stood at the threshold, dipping into a shallow curtsey. "It's been too long! Mr. Grant is expecting you."

"Good day, Mrs. Grant." Elizabeth could not help but stare. Whereas she had expected aloofness, Darcy's greeting was nothing short of solicitous. "How are the children?"

"Fine, fine. They've recovered from that nasty cold – and are now the ruffians they usually are. They're running out back, right now. Please, do come in."

They entered a hazelnut receiving room, with white lace doilies and comfortable, if not gilded, furniture. It was surprisingly spacious for a vicar's dwelling. A dark-haired, bespectacled man of medium height sprang to his feet, a warm smile appearing as he caught sight of her husband.

"We've missed you, Darcy."

It was the welcome of a friend rather than that of a subordinate. She risked a glance at Mr. Darcy – surely he would not enjoy the casual address –

"Grant," Darcy rejoined with a firm handshake. His mouth curved into a smile, breathtakingly handsome, so different from the icy mien he wrapped around him like a cloak in Meryton that for a moment she could not believe it was the same man. "May I introduce you to my wife?"

"A pleasure, Mrs. Darcy."

"You as well, Mr. Grant."

The vicar turned his attention to Darcy. "My belated congratulations – or second congratulations. Have you been holing up within the manse again? I have not seen you since the ceremony."

"I've been preoccupied," Darcy answered dryly. "I did, however, receive your missive. The repairs have been authorized and paid for."

"Excellent. Although I fear the fire at the locksmith's also did quite a bit of damage, and the contributions during service were not enough to cover the costs."

"How did the fire start?"

"An untended stove, I believe," Grant said, forehead furrowing. "Would you like to see?"

They left the horses at the parsonage under the care of Mrs. Grant, who insisted on feeding sugar cubes to both. Elizabeth undertook the trek with a barely concealed air of disbelief.

Mr. Darcy was not a man of the people. The respect of an equal, that he reserved for the vicar, who seemed to be an old friend. But he was not dismissive of his tenants as he passed through Kympton. He remembered each man, women, and child by name, inquiring after their families, their harvests, and their health with genuine concern. In return, he was treated with a combination of deference, awe, and an overwhelming eagerness to please. Boys offered him roasted nuts and other candies; girls giggled behind small hands as he passed; adults gave their thanks. In the course of accompanying him for merely an hour, she discerned that Mr. Darcy was a better landlord than she could have ever imagined.

It was nigh impossible to reconcile him with the jealous, power-hungry gentleman Wickham had described. If it was an act – but it could not be. These villagers had known Darcy since he was a child. Either Darcy was a veritable Janus, able to transform with the flip of a coin, or _Wickham had lied and her judgments had been all wrong_.

Wrong. Her gloved hands shook. She could not have been wrong, for that would make Darcy a good man, if too taciturn and reserved. If Darcy was a good man, what was _she_, the woman who cheated him into marriage, who'd judged him so terribly incorrectly?

But there was also the matter of Jane, of Bingley – and he had veritably admitted separating them –

"Mrs. Darcy," the object of her reflections murmured beside her, "Is everything alright?"

She nodded, a jerky, reflexive movement. And swayed.

His grip on her arm was firm and steadying. "You're white as death."

"No," she protested. "I'm fine. Please, Mr. Darcy, don't trouble yourself on my account."

"Perhaps you'd best head home, madam." The vicar, this time. He regarded her with faint, impersonal concern. It was the concern of a stranger that did it. She was not a shrinking violet, ready to faint at the first sign of trouble.

She shrugged off Darcy's arm, gathering her thoughts. Wickham may have lied, but there was no proof, not yet. And what Darcy had done to dear, heartbroken Jane, who'd rejected all ensuing suitors for three years – that was unforgivable.

Yet she could not ignore the nagging possibility that he had changed.

* * *

><p>Something was wrong. Fitzwilliam examined the smithy with a keen eye, and his wife with an even sharper one.<p>

She was charming, to the tenants. She'd smiled and chatted and remembered, committing details to a memory that he was discovering to be an ironclad trap. _Molly was the baker's daughter, Samuel her sweetheart, Daniel her overprotective brother._ Her unaffected interest endeared her to the working women; her liveliness earned the admiration of the laborers.

But he could sense her discomfort increasing with each family to whom she was introduced. And then she'd paled so dramatically, so abruptly, nearly too overcome to stand.

It puzzled him. He was unable to prevent the dawning concern. He'd been certain that she would like the village and its inhabitants, its unpretentious nature and autumn cheer. She insisted that she was not ill at his inquiry, but her complexion, her silence, hinted that she was at the very least preoccupied.

He had not felt this stifling worry since Anne's first fall.

"It's becoming late – we should return."

She didn't respond. He exchanged a glance with Grant before gently taking her arm. She smelled faintly of lavender, impossibly clean and clear. "We should return to Pemberley," he repeated. "I'll call for a carriage. We can retrieve the horses tomorrow."

"No." Her luminous eyes remained fixed at some distant point in the horizon. Evening was starting to fall, dusting the sky with shades of magenta and rose. "Let's ride."

_Was she insane?_ His hold tightened.

"Be reasonable. You're in no shape to handle Lucy."

They'd almost reached the parsonage. Grant had moved ahead to give them privacy, not wanting to be present for what he probably perceived as a marital disagreement.

"But we'll be imposing – "

"We can send a groom to retrieve the horses tonight. Please, Elizabeth. Come home with me."

There wasn't an answer in words, but he felt her agreement as she leaned on him ever so slightly, tension filtering out from her shoulders. He did not ask what had her so lost in thought.

It wasn't until later, sitting alone by the fire in his study, that he realized he'd called her by her given name for the first time since she'd materialized at his doorstep.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: And this chapter is proof that the last chapter's repost wasn't just clickbait C: Hopefully the updates will be more consistent this time around! I don't really have a good excuse other than being busy; thank you all so much for sticking with this story and providing inspiration! As always, follows/favorites/reviews (especially the latter) are vastly appreciated.**

**-Saelia**


	7. Earthquake

_**Tempest**_

* * *

><p><span><strong>VII.<strong>** Earthquake**  
><em>and tilts above its axis<br>_

**-~O~-**

"Mrs. Darcy, you _will _come attend the Semples' soiree."

"And why is that?"

"Because if you do not, then I will be forced to accompany Mama as she brazenly attempts to marry me off to any man between the age of twenty-two and fifty."

"I'm uncertain how my presence would make any difference," Elizabeth demurred absently.

_Darcy. Wickham. _The litany of doubt charged through her mind, disruptive and distracting, grating against her immediate surroundings and occasionally overwhelming them.

In another world, she could have thought upon it and let it go, unresolved – but that was a world in which she had not married the man she might have misjudged so terribly. As it was, she'd lain awake all night, sleepless, wondering and shaken. Calling on Miss Trent was a valiant effort at taking her mind away from its turmoil.

Her attempt to achieve peace of mind was also apparently nothing sort of an abject failure. Ruefully jerking herself out of her self-chastisement, Elizabeth realized Miss Trent was still speaking.

"But if you _are _present, then I will be allowed to converse with you in peace. The only thing Mama covets more than my wedding is being able to one-up her friends with the newest gossip."

That pulled a laugh. During _her _mother's matchmaking days, Mrs. Bennet, too, would have single-handedly slain a fire-breathing dragon to have all her daughters married before Lady Lucas planned Charlotte's wedding. Gossip would not have deterred the Bennet matriarch, back then. Then, before the scandal, the deaths, the _ruin_.

"I'm afraid I would do Mrs. Trent very little good. There's not much to tell about Mr. Darcy and I – our lives are quite boring, I'm afraid."

"_Don't _say that," Miss Trent gushed, her wide mouth forming a comical ring of horror. "You're taking away my peccadilloes, one by one!"

Lizzy's lips twitched. "I'm afraid you give me too much credit."

"I do not. First you besmirched my vanity by painting a nicer rose than mine – don't think I didn't notice – and now you've destroyed my delusions of passionate grandeur. There is _nothing _duller than a perfect contentment like yours."

A part of Elizabeth found wicked amusement in that – if _she and Darcy_ were the picture of domestic tranquility, then marital discord probably involved wolves, cannons, and plenty of bloodshed.

"'Perfect contentment' isn't quite the phrase."

To Lizzy's dismay, she sounded oddly wistful, not wry. Miss Trent was silent.

_Silence._ If Wickham had lied, why had Mr. Darcy been silent in the face of her accusations?

The sun was suddenly too bright. Disoriented, the cacophony in Lizzy's head blared at full, dizzying speed. She stood, swiping her brush against the drying cloth with enough force to leave a trail of dark fibers, dismal and out of place against the wet rag.

Miss Trent looked up, startled. "Mrs. Darcy?"

"I apologize, Miss Trent; I'm not quite myself today. There are some matters I need to attend to – and then I will be better company, I promise."

A faint crease lined the other lady's golden brow. It was the first time that Miss Trent had appeared perfectly serious since their roadside meeting.

"I don't mean to presume – but come to the soiree, Mrs. Darcy. For my sake, and for yours. Some new company might do you some good." She paused. "Though I suppose you will be getting that soon enough at Pemberley."

Elizabeth dropped her lavender paints into the wicker basket. "Pardon?"

Clear green eyes widened. "Why, Georgiana Darcy is returning home this weekend. I thought you knew; she wrote me of her plans a fortnight ago. Surely Mr. Darcy informed you?"

"Evidently not," Elizabeth retorted. She regretted the faint acrimony that lined her words like a sour aftertaste as soon as she'd uttered them. But that half the neighborhood apparently knew of her sister-in-law's impending stay and that she did not – and here she had thought her relationship with Mr. Darcy was _improving_ –

Her cheeks felt hot, too hot, her anger surging. How could he not inform her? She inhabited the house too – it was just like him to be so high-handed, so thoughtless –

And it was so like herself to leap to conclusions, to play judge and jury based on reactionary emotions alone. Elizabeth flushed. It was precisely this type of thought that had allowed such uncertainty regarding Wickham to fester under the surface. Perhaps she'd been right, but if not –

She needed answers, now.

* * *

><p>The narrow staircase loomed in front of her, somehow more intimidating than the spiraling behemoth that dominated the foyer of the manse. Elizabeth had visited the servants' quarters before, examining the kitchens and supervising the replacement of various appliances, but never had the entrance seemed so poorly lit, so unwelcoming.<p>

It was pure cowardice, but she did not want to know –

Only she _must_.

Her fingers curled around the rope that swung from the bottom of the brass bell and pulled. It was a mere moment later when Mrs. Reynolds materialized with her severe bun and crisp uniform, looking more like a female incarnation of her employer than ever before.

"Mrs. Darcy. How may I assist you?"

Elizabeth met the housekeeper's gaze levelly. This time, her hands did not shake; her posture proved impressively serene, even placid. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Reynolds. I was wondering if you would mind taking a turn around the gardens with me."

Mrs. Reynold's impeccably polite expression did not shift an inch. "Delighted to, ma'am."

It was as much as Elizabeth had hoped for. Together, they made their way to the grounds. The day was warm, unusually so, yet the vermillion maples and the tangerine layers carpeting the withering grass made it difficult to forget the season.

The crimson hues of foliage appeared almost mocking, reminders of how long Elizabeth had been responsible for this place. How little she had gleaned about Pemberley since then.

How unfamiliar and enigmatic its master remained.

She caught sight of a break in the sea of reds: an abundance of small yellow flowers dotting the nearby shrubbery, framing the small trail. Reaching out, she clasped one between her fingers and rubbed the silky petals against her skin. "I was unaware that goldenrod bloomed this late in autumn."

"The gardeners do an excellent job of cultivating them, ma'am."

"I can see that," Elizabeth murmured, allowing the flower to fall. It sprang back to its original position in an instant. "Mrs. Reynolds, how long have you worked here at Pemberley?"

"Twenty-seven years, ma'am."

"Then you have known Mr. Darcy since he was a child."

At last, a glimmer of emotion showed on the older woman's face. If possible, her back seemed to become even straighter. "Begging your pardon, ma'am, but I don't gossip about the master, if that's whom you mean to discuss."

The housekeeper's immediate defensiveness startled Elizabeth. For Mr. Darcy to earn such unremitting loyalty – Lizzy's tongue suddenly felt thick, awkward, like a bar of lead in her mouth. "I was not planning to – I intended to ask if you also knew a gentleman named George Wickham."

Intelligent blue eyes narrowed, sharpened. "I do."

"I heard he spent his childhood here." Elizabeth chose her words with care. "There are rumors that he suffered some great misfortune due to my husband's actions. I wanted to ascertain if those whispers were at all justified – "

"The only misfortune that George Wickham ever endured, he brought entirely on himself!" Mrs. Reynolds's worn hands flew to her mouth as if as startled by the vehemence of her own outburst as Elizabeth was. Slowly, her arms dropped to her sides as she continued more calmly, "My apologies for interrupting, ma'am, but Mr. Wickham was no victim. What that man intended – almost succeeded at – Mr. Darcy was right to expel him from the estate."

A cold sensation spread through Elizabeth. "What did Mr. Wickham do?"

The housekeeper shook her head, lips thinning. "Mr. Darcy prefers that the staff not mention it, the few of us that know. I'm sorry, Mrs. Darcy. For the specifics, you will have to ask the master directly – but I can tell you this, at least: Wickham is not one to be trusted."

Elizabeth barely heard this last indict of Wickham. The vivid canary of the goldenrod faded to an indistinguishable cream. Even the trees and the path careened to the side, everything off-center, unbalanced. She would not ask Mr. Darcy. What principles Wickham had violated, she did not care to know.

The only thing that mattered was that she had been so wrong about the kind of man she'd deceived.

Bile rose in her throat, thick and bitter. Mrs. Reynolds might be flinty and unyielding, but, however blind Elizabeth may have been before, however pettily determined she'd been to think the worst of Mr. Darcy, she recognized that a lie from the stern housekeeper would be entirely out of character. In concordance with the respect the villagers presented him, it was far more likely than not that Elizabeth had erred greatly.

He was not a paragon. He was haughty; he had _wronged _Jane in taking Bingley from her; and he minced no words – yet that did not justify Lizzy's own blindness.

Why had she so easily believed Wickham, three years prior? What had he, a transient, a new member of the militia who'd hunted for an heiress even then, to recommend him other than pleasing manners and an eagerness to agree with any popular opinion? Nothing but her own slighted vanity, her building a shrine to her dislike, an altar onto which she could sacrifice Mr. Darcy's character to her prejudice.

And how she had refused him – the memories rose unbidden, small cyclones scattering her other thoughts. Her passionate defense of Wickham, her furious diatribe at Darcy. _You have reduced him to his present state of poverty—comparative poverty. You have deprived the best years of his life of that independence which was no less his due than his desert. You have done all this! and yet you can treat the mention of his misfortune with contempt and ridicule!_

"Mrs. Darcy," interrupted Mrs. Reynolds – except her voice carried the tin quality of sound from very far away somehow – "I'm afraid I must go to oversee preparations for supper."

The reminder dragged Elizabeth back into reality. _Supper _– it was to be the first night they dined together. The olive-branch that would attempt to turn this charade looming over the rest of their lives into something bearable, perhaps even passably true. He could be kind – he _was _kind. To her. Who had been cruel, if unknowingly, and was _mercenary_, quite purposefully.

She would not face him tonight – she could not.

But she had to face him. To do otherwise would be cowardice, to renege on her word, to engineer the demise of this – this possibility between them. And, for all her sins, she was not a coward.

Her spine straightened as she composed herself, sheer force of will holding her upright. There was nothing but polite gratitude in her smile by the time she turned.

"I understand, Mrs. Reynolds. And – truly – I appreciate your time today. It has been an enlightening conversation."

* * *

><p>He arrived punctually – the foyer clock tolled precisely nine o'clock on the hour – as was his habit. What he had not expected was for her to already be present, dark eyes gazing at the rich burgundy walls and seeing nothing.<p>

"Good evening, Mrs. Darcy."

She started. Pink splotched on her cheeks as she gave him a smile bordering on sheepish. "I'm sorry. I was woolgathering, again. It's an unfortunate habit of mine."

"May I ask what about?"

The upturned curve of her lips faltered. Her flush intensified, appearing crimson against her unusually pale skin. Silence settled between them like snow filtering into an empty hollow, cold and almost malleable. Ever since Anne, he'd taken a certain comfort in the stillness. Without forward movement, nothing could shatter.

Eventually she spoke. "Just – just personal failings, I suppose. And that you, Mr. Darcy, neglected to mention that your sister will be returning to Pemberley in less than four days."

He arched a brow. "And which of the servants did you hear this from?"

"No servant, actually. I was having tea with Miss Trent. And was rather surprised that half the neighborhood knows Georgiana Darcy is arriving." She adjusted her plate so the gold accents faced outward, the faint glint matching the effect of the candles on her hair, thick and uncovered by a bonnet. He folded his hands in front of him lest he succumb to the foolish urge to take out the pins holding up her tresses, one by one.

"I doubt half the neighborhood knows. Georgiana and Miss Trent are thick as thieves – my sister likely informed her before even informing me."

"Oh," she murmured. Her eyes snapped upwards, focusing everywhere but his face. It was unlike her to hesitate so. He could not give her what she needed, but neither did he enjoy seeing her so tense.

"Is something the matter?"

She swallowed, a delicate pulsing across the graceful slope of her neck. It had been almost a year since he had felt this way, so frequently, hungry for something entirely different from the sumptuous roast duck resting on the table. _And never with Anne_.

"I – No. I think – I spent too time much thinking, actually." Appearing to have reached some sort of equilibrium, some secret decision, Elizabeth smiled a bit ruefully, her knife digging vigorously into her food. "A dangerous activity for me, isn't it?"

"Quite," he agreed, straight-faced.

She started, offense beginning to take form in the argumentative set of her chin – and instead laughed. Her eyes danced. "You're terrible. Deliberating provoking others with statements you do not believe may land you in trouble yet, Mr. Darcy, and that icy glare of disapproval may not be enough to ward off _everything_."

_Cheek. Liveliness. Zest._ It had always been that spontaneity, that earnest enthusiasm for life that illuminated Elizabeth Bennet, that lent her a glow that no society beauty – and Darcy had seen his share – could match. It had been so muted since her arrival at his doorstep – and now, at a rare appearance, the corner of his mouth turned up of its own volition.

"It certainly falls short when faced with your impertinence."

"I am afraid I am uncommonly stubborn. There is a stubbornness in me that can never bear to be frightened by the will of others," she said archly, almost daring him to respond. The smidgen of cream at the corner of her full, wine-stained lips bobbed up and down as she spoke. The artless way she licked it off made his cravat abruptly become too tight.

He wanted her.

It had been so long. And, Christ, he had never been indifferent to _her_. Quite the opposite. Three years ago, he'd gone stark raving mad. A decade of rationalism, incurred by raising a sister and managing an enormous estate, had surrendered to the love-struck, lust-addled fervor of young men since time immemorial. A club to which he had never imagined belonging. But he'd thrown himself into that membership with all the unfortunate determination of a debt-laden man going in all-or-nothing at White's tables. _Vingt-et-un_.

A game that he had lost in more ways than one.

Darcy was not a man who repeated his mistakes.

He gripped his silverware, willing the desire to pass, willing his sanity to return. His rejoinder came out slightly strained. "'Those who never retract their opinions prefer themselves over truth.'"

Distracted, he missed the way she stiffened. Then composed herself.

"It's 'love themselves.'"

"'Love themselves?'"

She blushed a little, rose patches blooming on creamy skin. "Joseph Joubert wrote 'love themselves over truth,' not 'prefer themselves over truth.'"

"What is love if not irrational preference?" The faint bitterness clouding his speech was both unexpected and unwelcome. He reached for his glass. The wine was too sweet, with no depth. Fitzwilliam was not given to drink, but he longed for the burn of whiskey at this particular moment.

_Irrational preference _had killed Anne, after all.

She reddened further. Aware that his distemper bordered on rude, not wishing to discomfort her, he drank in the silence, driving out the memories, the sudden mood. His control was usually iron-clad, but there was something about Elizabeth Bennet – _Darcy _– that never failed to unbalance him.

He eventually managed normality. "I should have guessed that you are a bluestocking."

"I am," she admitted. He could tell from the relaxing of her shoulders that she was grateful for the lighter turn to the conversation. "And you, Mr. Darcy, are a man of hidden depths. I had you pegged for Newton and Locke – not Joubert's aphorisms on the significance of existence."

"I live to defy expectations," he said, voice wry. "In the future, however, I suppose I will have to choose my Joubert – and pithy sayings – with far more care, considering that my wife likely knows them better than I."

"It is only habit. My father – he would always mangle his sayings. Although purposefully, as you did. It was a contest of sorts between us. I would correct him and he would correct my correction. Charlotte called it 'the most boring game she'd ever seen' – perhaps second only in lack of diversion to Mary's piano recitals."

"That bad?" he inquired, deliberately avoiding her mention of her father, and the past tense she'd used in association with him.

"I found neither activity intolerable. But others have different tastes than me, I suppose. May I ask you for a favor?"

He blinked at the non sequitur. "You may."

"Will you attend the Semples' soiree with me? I noticed that you are not one for large functions, but I thought it might be nice to go together – and quell some of the gossip."

He detested neighborhood get-togethers. Had ever since the whispers started. But what she said was true. According to Grant, their lack of public appearances were beginning to cause talk.

She was an affliction, but an affliction with irresistible dimples and an irritating tendency to be right.

"Yes," he said curtly. She ignored his taciturnity; her grin broadened.

"You may be surprised, Darcy. It might even be entertaining."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **So my excuses suck. I do promise that this story will never be abandoned, however, no matter how long it takes me to crank out a chapter. As always, thanks so much to readers and reviewers for staying with me and for your criticism + encouragement!

As far as updates go - thanks to a guest review, I was reminded that a couple of the Darcy's social status would not have shared a bedroom in the 19th century. That has been fixed (in previous chapters) - Darcy and Elizabeth only shared a bed on the first night. I'm definitely interested in keeping this a period piece as much as possible, so if anyone has similar input on inconsistencies with the time period, message me / review!

Please **favorite/review** if you're so inclined - it means the world to me.


	8. Distant Wind

_**Tempest**_

* * *

><p><span><strong>VIII. Distant Wind<strong>  
><em>carrying voices on the air<br>_

**-~O~-**

_This was not entertaining._

Misplaced shipments never were. Darcy grimaced as he paged through the reports. Would that more men strove for mediocrity, if not greatness: if this negligence continued, the warehouse manager would have to be replaced, and that he never enjoyed.

Outside, heavy raindrops splattered on the polished stained-glass window, slamming against the barrier as the ferocious wind directed their paths. It was early December, the wrong season for such Goethean _sturm und drang_. But this sleet-like precipitation was already a raging storm. The trails would be ruined until the morrow; visiting the tenants and drafting a plan to replace the smithy with Lewis was out of the question.

As much as he despised being housebound, perhaps this accursed rain held a purpose: relieving him of his obligations to the Semples and his wife.

_No such luck._ The pattering of water dimmed as soon as the thought rose to mind. The sudden quiet exposed a soft, lilting voice filtering through the heavy oak panels of his study. An infant's short gurgle of delight followed shortly.

His jaw tightened at the sound.

_This _was why he loathed being trapped in the manse. Hearing her with George – imagining them together –

Elizabeth would be cradling the child, her slim figure illuminated by the glow of the fire. Her eyes warm as she cooed out a song, more heart than technique; the baby reaching up to her with chubby fingers, ruddy cheeks crinkling in hard-won laughter. It was a perverse twist on everything he had ever wanted.

It was pure, unbridled temptation.

He wrenched himself away from such thoughts. _Seventy percent returns on the remaining goods_. The numbers were soothing: punctual, rational, and unencumbered by anything other than cold, plain logic.

Another peal of hiccupping laughter. An answering coo. George's visage rose to mind, unbidden, unpreventable. The snub nose, sky-blue eyes, sharp, jutting chin; Anne's nose, Anne's eyes, _Anne's face_, Anne's accusations falling like acid rain on his conscience.

The tip of the goose-quill broke loose due to pressure. On the ruined page of accounts, the splattering black ink had erased the record of any profits gained.

* * *

><p>Not so very far away in the nursery, George was clapping. <em>Again<em>.

And, per usual, the movement of the tiny hands was accompanied by a jubilant impatience – the hallmark emotion of a cheerful baby that could make gurgling sound imperious.

_Like father, like son. _

Elizabeth obediently tossed the vermillion scarf in the air. It fluttered close enough that George's small fingers narrowly missed catching the gauzy material. The navy fabric drifted into the air next. Then came the chartreuse.

In a matter of seconds, she was balancing the three to the accompanying music of George's infectious delight. Cornflower-blue eyes alternated between crinkling with laughter and widening in curiosity as the scarves' graceful motion formed a spinning, twisting hoop of color.

The demanding shake of a chubby fist – _faster_, she could hear the silent command – drew a helpless grin.

"You, Mr. George, have incorrigibly high standards. I haven't done this since childhood. Not since our governess taught us all to juggle as a reward for sitting still for an hour."

If babies could shrug, George's casual perusal of his thumb would be it. Shaking her head in exasperated amusement, Elizabeth acquiesced. The scarves flew quicker. _Red, blue, green. Red, blue, green. Red –_

"Mrs. Darcy?"

Wisps of silk fluttered to the floor.

"Yes, Katie?"

"'Scuse the interruption, ma'am, but your correspondence has arrived."

Elizabeth's gaze sharpened. The younger woman – girl, really – stood at the entrance to the nursery, a pyramidal heap of paper resting precariously in her slender arms. A distinctive wax seal jutted out from the bottom of the mess. Lizzy's pulse quickened.

_News at last. _

She was across the room before she knew it, plucking the package from Katie's load, only barely remembering her manners enough to give a distracted word of thanks. Thoughts of letter openers were forgotten; it was with bare, trembling hands that she tore open the plain wax seal and smoothed the folded sheaf of papers inside against the oak wall. Tired eyes fought to take in as many black letters as possible in one sweep:

_I write this in haste. My sincerest apologies if my silence has worried you; Lydia did not have an easy time of it, and every hand was necessary to tend to her these past weeks. But, dearest Lizzy, do not be alarmed. We are well, here, and you – you are now an aunt!_

_The waiting is finally over. Lydia delivered mere hours ago, and the doctor has confirmed the infant's health. She has been christened Beatrice Lily. Oh, how I wish you could see her, Lizzy, for she is the loveliest of newborns. She has Papa's stubborn chin and Mama's dainty nose – a Bennet baby through and through._

_I must confess, though, that uncharitable thoughts ran through me when I saw her for the first time. A part of me – a small part, thankfully, but a part nonetheless – wishes that little Bea did not look so much like Lydia, for Bea's features yield no clues as to the father. Lydia continues to insist she does not remember who she was with that night. I do not think her a liar, as the trauma of the experience may have truly caused her to forget – _ruined_, Lizzy. Utterly ruined. Even now, I still cannot quite grasp it. Is it so terrible of me that I wish to know the father's identity, so that he may be held responsible? _

_How dreary a turn this letter has taken. I am needed now, so this correspondence must be short, but I implore you to write me of how you have been. You are so brave, but I worry – well, there is nothing more to be done._

_We must all hope for the best._

_Your devoted sister,_

JANE

.

.

.

_Christ._

Never had relief burned so hot, scorching her on the inside, magma in her veins. Searing. Maddening. _Vicious_.

There was joy. Lydia delivered, safely; her family survived, adequately; Atlas's burden lifted, infinitesimally. But white-hot undercurrents strove to crack the surface of that elation.

Sweet, darling Jane wanted the man who rested at the heart of all this pain 'held responsible.' Elizabeth wanted the bastard who violated her little sister to _pay_.

_Redbluegreen red blue green red, blue, green._ Composure. She must regain it. There would be time for justice later. After she settled the matter of her family's security.

"Ma'am? Do you – do you need anything?"

_Red. Blue. Green. _

She did not meet Katie's wide eyes. Nor did she note the tentativeness in the maid's soft query, the bewilderment in the girl's open mouth.

Katie's gaze darted to the missive, fallen from her mistress's slender grasp into the lush oriental carpeting. Then to the lady herself, who had inexplicably begun to juggle scarves again. Then to the waiting baby, abruptly silent, somehow more perceptive than Katie herself.

"No," said Mrs. Darcy.

The door shut with a decisive click. Elizabeth's hands still shook.

* * *

><p>Elizabeth sat patiently as Katie smoothed another curl, marveling at the maid's nimble movements. Few others could win a battle for dominance against her hair on a humid day after a storm.<p>

"There, ma'am. All done."

She rose. In the gleaming mirror hanging by the bureau, she could see her form: dark tresses wrestled into a deceptively smooth coiffure, her figure wrapped in a simple silk gown of deep, daring red. The muscles of her face were relaxed, bordering on tranquil.

The roiling emotions of the day before had for the most part faded. Her anger had not. It merely calmed to a slow simmer underneath the surface. An old rage, submerged under the grief and uncertainty of the past few months, now thrown into sharp relief by Jane's missive. While Lydia and her sisters languished in ignominy, the man who'd perpetrated it all walked away without repercussion.

Her father was _dead_, and the scoundrel responsible probably flirted with another naïve girl at this very moment.

Lavender. Sweet, grieving, resigned, an official hue of half-mourning. It was what Lizzy should have worn this evening, but the color she'd enveloped herself in for weeks had inexplicably begun to feel like defeat.

"You look lovely in that shade, Mrs. Darcy."

She smiled at Katie. Her behavior yesterday had been highly irregular at best; she was intensely grateful for the girl's nonplussed aplomb. "Only due to your efforts. You work miracles on frizz. Has the carriage arrived?"

"Yes – the master is waiting in the foyer."

"I'd best go, then. I shall see you later tonight."

Waving her goodbye, Elizabeth hurried out of her bedchamber. She suspected Darcy was not a man used to waiting long for anyone; he was ever punctual, ever correct. Manners and starch and – and unabridged sincerity. Deception and flattery were beneath him, for he simply _refused_ to suffer fools. And his astute, if too highly critical, judgements of character empowered him to distinguish such individuals at once.

Unlike herself. Her abject stupidity with Wickham and her inexcusable laxness with Lydia proved damning evidence of that.

Perhaps _he _might have seen that Lydia would trap herself in scandal the likes of which Meryton had never witnessed. If only she had been less blind, less quixotic in her view of marriage and accepted his proposal three years before –

She stumbled. Only her death-grip on the rail kept her from tumbling down the stairs in a flurry of gold-hemmed skirts.

_No_. She did not regret refusing him. There were many things she could have – should have done differently, but that was not one of them. It was _not_.

So very startled was she by the stray thought that she did not notice the source of her distraction, standing under the chandelier, until she nearly bowled him over. In her haste to apologize, she also missed the tightening of his eyes as they swept over her figure, the flash of heat that dissipated into a mask of cool indifference.

"The crimson suits you."

Lizzy hated the frisson of excitement that raced down her spine.

Especially since Darcy's rich baritone remained as smooth and disinterested as if discussing the weather. Fitting, for such an iceberg of a man. Under the dazzling light of the chandelier, his glacial nature was more apparent than ever, all deep angles and blunt lines and strong, masculine profile. The black tailored jacket – plain in cut, but of unmistakable quality – and flawless white cravat only served to enhance the starkness of his appeal.

He arched a brow at her continued silence. She flushed, overly warm for reasons that had nothing to do with embarrassment.

_A good man_. Before she had the shield of her antipathy, her contempt for his character to clutch at. Now that it was gone, she was left with nothing but guilt and nerves and an inexplicable, jittery awareness.

Something had shattered between them, when Mrs. Reynolds' confirmation upended everything she'd believed about this man, and she could not quite regain her equilibrium.

"Mrs. Darcy?"

"My apologies. I was just thinking that you make a rather dashing penguin."

His brow lifted higher.

_Christ_. She did not just say that aloud. If only she could vanish. Preferably into a puff of smoke never to be found again.

"A penguin," he repeated slowly.

"A penguin," she confirmed, red to the roots of her hair.

His lips twitched. The corners turned upward. And suddenly, there it was: a lopsided grin that transformed his bearing from arctic to astonishingly boyish.

She inhaled sharply.

This man was _nothing_ like an iceberg.

"You are suggesting that I waddle."

"Perhaps you have developed one, in your old age," she managed to say. The feigned levity did nothing to suppress the palpitations in her chest. "It _has _been three years, after all."

His expression did not change, but something dimmed regardless.

"Yes, three years." That was it: his smile no longer reached his eyes. "I suppose that tonight I must endeavor to prove that I can still walk steadily, despite my advanced age. Shall we?"

She took the proffered forearm. Together they walked to the carriage. The velvet-covered transport was sumptuous in its gold brocade and elaborate embroidery, but such thoughts could not be farther from her mind.

It was not the first time she'd been escorted by a gentleman. It was not even the first time Darcy had accompanied her. Perhaps it was the lighting, dim and romantic, with only the torches flaring outside like trapped pieces of sun. More likely it was the torpedoing revelations of two days ago. Regardless of the reason, this time was different.

There were layers of superfine and silk resting between them, safeguards against the brush of naked skin. It was not enough. Her fingers could clearly feel the firm, corded muscle underneath the fabric. A tingling sensation shot up her arm.

She withdrew her hand too fast, as if scalded, when they reached the vehicle. Her hasty clambering to avoid further proximity was not elegant. He of course slid into the seat across from her with easy, leonine grace.

The carriage started. She looked away.

Her glove was still warm from his touch.

_As was she._

A ridiculous thought. One did not warm from a single point of contact. It was the stuff of novels, something that Kitty and Lydia would giggle and sigh over. Something that she could not allow Mr. Darcy to evoke in her.

Not when she had misjudged him, lied to him, _used _him. Lydia's condition was still a secret, but it would take only one sighting by an acquaintance, one loose pair of lips. And little Bea – little Bea deserved a life out of the shadows. The Darcy good name would inevitably be sullied by the Bennet scandal.

While she'd thought him a cad who stole Wickham's inheritance, the guilt had at least been bearable.

Now Elizabeth drowned in it.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** A slightly shorter chapter. I almost included the next few scenes, but then realized they made much more sense as part of the following chapter - and this one had a lot going on as is.

As always, thank you so much for your patience and for your feedback! I'm a ridiculously slow writer, and it's always amazing to see people sticking with this story regardless. The reviews have been a wonderful source of inspiration, and when I read them, plot ideas abound C:

Hope you enjoyed the chapter, and please favorite/review if you have a chance!


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